


Just Give Me Derek Hale in a Kilt

by Spitshine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU – Historical, AU – Teen Wolf/Mists of Avalon crossover, AU – Teen Wolf/Outlander crossover, AU – Werewolves Exist, Anal Sex, BAMF!Stiles, Blood Play, But it's the 1700s so..., Developing D/s Relationship, Druid!Deaton, Enthusiastic Consent, Exhibitionism, Fingering, Fluid Bonding Like Woah, Frottage, Hickeys, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Magical Tattoos, Masturbation, Mildest Puppy Play, Orgasm Denial, Pack Feels, Prolonged Eye Contact, Questionable Lube Choices, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Rutting, Scotland, Spanking, Tantra, Top!Stiles, Truly Epic Blowjobs, Unsafe Sex, Voyeurism, alpha!Derek, bamf!Lydia, painslut!Derek, porn with a tiny bit of plot, priestesss!Lydia, versatile! Stiles, versatile!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-02-24 03:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2566913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitshine/pseuds/Spitshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles had just finished med school and moved to Beacon Hills to be close to his dad; it seemed a pleasant, if sleepy, place--until he touched a stump out in the woods and woke up in 1746, in the midst of the struggle for a free Scotland.</p><p>Hottest werewolf ever jumping his bones? Icing on suddenly-supernatural cake.</p><p>[Found this prompt on tumblr, and I needed it in my face: http://areyoutryingtodeduceme.tumblr.com/post/97087196685/pounds-fist-on-table-no-but-give-me-a-sterek]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which We Meet Kilty McEyebrows, Lord of All Things Sex

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I won't be one of those people who starts writing a super epic story you get all emotionally involved in but then never finishes the last two chapters. The story itself is mostly done and in the editing phases; I'll be posting one a week until they're all up.
> 
> I'm a good editor, but I don't have a beta or any experience writing a Scots accent, so... suggestions are cool.

Stiles hadn't thought Beacon Hills would be so exciting, especially after so many years in Oakland while he went through UC Davis' med program. He'd been in the woods from a lack of something to do in the first place, thought maybe if he clambered on top of the old stump he'd get a better view of the valley below him and the gathering clouds above him. But here he was, on the windy Scottish Highlands, riding a horse—a motherfucking horse, for the first time in his life, god dammit—with the sexiest, beardiest man (and his band of outlaws) he had ever seen in a kilt. In or out of a kilt. Which is to say, the sexiest man he had ever seen, in or out of a kilt. But this particular one was in a kilt. Oh my god.

It was only what? Two days since he had been in those creepy woods around the burnt out Hale house. When he touched the tree, the world had spun—he felt sick and everything moved so fast it was an unbroken streak, impossible to see, and then it stopped and he fell on his face—okay, not that unusual for him, but he was blaming the spinning this time. Yessir. 

He'd sat up in a lush patch of what his so-called rescuer, Captain Raf “Skeevypants” McCall had leeringly told him was lady's mantle. They'd been galloping after “that no-good outlaw and rebel, Derek Hale.” Stiles' little ears had perked up at that. Rebel? He always did like an underdog.

McCall had caught up rather quickly with his intended quarry, a small band of Scottish rogues—or rather, had ridden rather quickly into their ambush. The outlaw Hale, better known to Stiles as Kilty McEyebrows, Lord of All Things Sex, had dispatched the Brits “and that cowardly traitor, McCall” with plenty of efficiency and blood, then taken stock of their animals and supplies. And their civilian tagalongs.

Kilty McEyebrows strode over to Stiles and thrust one hand out. (Was that blood? That was definitely blood.) “Hale. Derek Hale.” His voice was surprisingly soft, given the tower of muscle and body hair it came from. Stiles wanted to know what happened to make a man like that so bloodthirsty. Stiles want to know what else was soft about him. Stiles swallowed hard and stopped thinking about it. Emphatically.

“Stiles,” he blushed, stammered a answer that resulted in nothing when asked about his odd clothes (jeans, perfectly fucking normal jeans, a T-shirt, a perfectly fucking normal T-shirt, and a hoodie, a, well, a very purple hoodie). When he flailed his arms to indicate a lack of coat, Hale had rummaged in his pack for a spare great kilt and handed it to him, murmuring, “We don't have time get you folded up just now but wrap this around you, it'll keep you warm enough.”

Stiles had blushed and flailed, but just a little, mostly on the inside where his stomach was quivering and his blood cells had apparently all decided to play NASCAR. Did... did Kilty McEyebrows really just offer to fold him up? The clansman got him situated on the horse, tucking the length of cloth tightly in, and added shyly (could it really be called shyly though? Stiles had a hard time classifying such a brickhouse as shy anything ANYWAY) he had added, maybe shyly, “You can call me Derek.” As he bumped along on one of the huge horses they'd stolen from the British troops, his mind bounced helplessly from how this very fabric has been on Derek's manly chest, and legs, and ass and—oh shit, didn't he always hear they didn't wear anything under a kilt—to Scott back home and how he was and didn't that Raf look a lot like him and how did Stiles get here anyway to his dad, who was still settling into Beacon Hills, and his ladyfriend, a nurse who worked with Stiles—and HOLY SHIT, Derek's cock, no underwear.

Stiles' mind shorted out momentarily as he ever-so-smoothly sniffed at the bit of kilt tucked around his shoulder. _Okay, so it's basically impossible to know what part of his body this touched, Stiles reasoned to himself. That doesn't change the fact that this kilt smells really good. Like pheromones. The best weird ass time traveling sexy man pheromones. And it doesn't change the fact that I would touch any part of him. Every-_

“What was that, Stiles?” Derek yelled heartily as he rode past, done consulting with the rear guard and returning to the front. “You have to speak up in this wind!”

Shit. Internal monologues have to stay on the inside, he reminded himself. Again. “What? I didn't- I just meant- Well- I didn't say anything. Nope. It, uh, maybe sounded like I did. But. Nope. Didn't say anything. No talking here. Obvious. Quiet as a mouse. That's-” Stiles physically held his jaw closed to stop the tide of embarrassment. Crapcrapcrap what does a million years ago Kilty McEyebrows think about awkward queer doctors from the future? Probably not quite as favorably as the Dr. Who devotees on tumblr, he guessed. Probably should not talk about this here. Internal. Fuck.

Derek was still riding next to him, looking at him with confusion. After a few quiet moments, he said, “Whatever strange events led you here, I hope they have not damaged your mind beyond healing. Every true al—leader must care for all people, and I should be ashamed if I failed you.”

“Uh-ah-yes. Sure. Okay. Shutting up now.” Stiles had no idea how to get home (unless they found another huge spooky stump?) so he figured he might as well look at Derek as much as possible while he was here. Not saying that out loud though. Nope nope nope.

“We'll see.” Derek said, and it was hard to see through the beard and the eyebrows and all but, was that—a blush? Really? Stiles gazed after Derek, his mouth a dangling O, as the man rode to the front of the line.

**)O(**  


They had camped in a valley the British apparently didn't know existed. Stiles stared moodily at the fire; for once, his internal monologue stayed internal. He thought about the last time he had seen his dad and Melissa and Melissa's awesome son Scott, and when they would start missing him. How long had it even been in his time, anyway? Was that shit stopped while he went on the crazy adventure? When he got back, would a thousand years have gone by already? What if he got back before he had even left? What if he got back this morning? Scott and Melissa had stayed over and Scott woke him up with a sloppy blowjob that quickly turned into a sloppy 69 that in turn progressed to a morning of cartoons before Melissa had woken up and they all left and Stiles went on that fucking hike and-

His train of thought was cut off by Derek in front of him, blocking the fire and saying something about a tent.

“I'm sorry, what?”

“My tent. You will sleep there with me.” 

“Sleep—with you?”

“Yes. Usually, I sleep alone, so my tent has the most room.”

“Oh. I'm, I'm sorry to intrude.”

“Don't be. I'm not.” Stiles could make no sense of the words, and the accompanying facial expression was no help. Derek looked closed, like there was something he wished to say and couldn't quite.

“Yeah. Okay. Lead on!”

“Perhaps you would like to eat dinner first? Or are you too tired from your day?”

“Yeah, No. Yeah. Dinner. I'm definitely hungry. Thanks.”

Dinner was a thick brown stew and coarse bread, and it was god damn delicious—and he felt hearty afterward rather than mildly sick as he did after a good plate of curly fries. He ate it out of Derek's spare mug, which did nothing to help him not think about the man's mouth. He stared at the fire petulantly until he realized he was almost the only one left at it. Looking up, he saw groups of two or three men going into small, roughly made tents and remembered that co-sleeping was totally normal back in the day, and also that gayness wasn't even a thing, just men doing man stuff, until the god damn Victorian era 'cause there wasn't even a word for it in English before those fucks decided to pathologize every kind of great sex ever and what did that do for his chances of getting into Derek's kilt? Well, he was in Derek's kilt right-fucking-now in the literal sense, but in a more metaphorical way? Anyway. He sighed. Probably should go find Derek.

Stiles stood heavily, wiped at the seat of his borrowed kilt, looked around. No Derek. Well, crap. One grizzled old man was still creakily cleaning the cook pots, though, so Stiles hurried over to him. “Excuse me, do you know where Derek's tent is? Derek—Derek Hale?” The man stared impassively, which of course triggered Stiles' need to ramble and fill the silence. “You see—I'm supposed to sleep with him—in his tent, I mean—he, uh, usually sleeps alone so there's room there and-” _No need to feel awk, Balinkski, this is totally a normal-dude-thing._

“That he does. Can't say I'm surprised he'd let you in, though.”

“What?!”

“Stiles!” Derek strode out of the woods, saving Stiles from social awkwardness. Also from getting any answers from the old cook. “Been looking for you. About time to turn in, yeah?”

He choked on the air, just a little bit, and made an unusual gurgling sound as his legs self-tangled. “Um. Yes?” Stiles really hoped that didn't sound as whimpery as it felt.

And then they were inside the tent. Derek—fuck, he stood there in just a linen tunic, tossed his belt aside and spread out his enormous kilt out on the ground. It was so big he actually folded it a couple times before he laid it out. And then—Stiles swallowed, a lot—lay down.

“Well?” Oh shit, he was talking. “Doff yours and fold it for a blanket. If it rains tonight, and it will, we'll be warmer and drier than just one. Good luck really-”

Derek stopped talking abruptly. Stopped moving too. Stiles decided to do his best “this isn't weird” impression as he unwrapped the kilt and folded it over the bed. That Derek. Uh. Was in. Christ. He thought about taking off his normal clothes, firmly decided against it, toed off his sneakers and lay down at the very, very edge from the bed, as far from Derek as possible.

God damn. The man was the size of boat. A boat made from big giant arms that could probably hold him in the air as he ploughed into him, bouncing on absolutely nothing but his hands and his cock. Probably wouldn't even break a sweat. Fuck. Stiles rolled onto his belly and ground into the bed a little, hoping that maybe his erection would disappear into the wool and he wouldn't have to deal with it anymore. He blamed the smell. Between two kilts and that fucking boat of muscle and pheremones and god damn chest hair spilling from his shirt, Stiles was totally screwed.

He didn't know how long he had lain there before he heard snoring. An eternity of erections. A few minutes after, he felt Derek roll toward him and one of those arms, one of those big dumb sex arms, had wrapped around him and scooped him into the little spoon position. Still snoring. And—fuck fuckfuckfuck, that was definitely an erection. On his ass. Through jeans, sure, but _old_ jeans and that linen was none too thick and oh god oh god. It was hot, it was nestled just right between his ass cheeks and the other stupid sex arm was under his head and somehow it was more comfortable than his fancy microwhateverthefuck pillow at home and oh jeez.

Stiles fell asleep.

**)O(**  


Derek woke up just before dawn the next morning, as he always did, extricated his drool-covered arm, decided his erection didn't exist, and stripped his shirt before leaving the tent. He walked to the icy little river and stepped right off the steepest bank.


	2. In Which Derek Learns "Underwear"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man oh man I've been so ridic flattered by all y'all that I couldn't wait a whole week to post the next chapter. So it here a day early!

Stiles woke the next morning to an unholy yell. It was long and rumbling and seemed to echo off the _very heavens themselves_. Whatever it was, it could probably eat the entire tent with him still in it, so, yes, running. He was outside before he could even think of shoes and sprinted 30 yards without a backwards glance, until he saw the riverbank. And fell on his face (though he did succeed, he congratulated himself, on not falling into the water). 

The monstrous scream had ended. Now there was laughing. Very human laughing. Shit. Stiles told himself to look up. He told himself a couple more times. He looked up. The sun wasn't over the horizon yet, but he could just see the figure ahead of him in the faint grey light. Derek was in the water, clutching his belly—his naked belly—and laughing at him. Naked. “I didn't mean to frighten you, Stiles. Taking my bath, is all.”

“Y-you made that noise? How?”

“Jump in the river and you'll know.”

Stiles steadfastly ignored the naked-duo invitation no matter how cold that fucking water was and. “Can you make it again?”

Fucking HELL. Now that he knew the source wasn't going to eat him—although... shut UP, Stiles! and he could see the, uh, source in question, it turned out Derek's lungs vibrated at the same frequency as Stiles' balls. Oh good. Good to know. Yeah. His mouth dried.

“You're going to have to jump in now, you know. You're all covered in mud.”

Stiles looked down. The fucker was right. Both he and his clothes were filthy. Shit. Well, that just meant he did not have to take his clothes off. Closing his eyes, he jumped in. And squeaked. Definitely squeaked. He stood up, water about up to his ribs, and scrubbed a stubborn patch of mud on his sleeve.

“I do not know where you're from, Stiles, but your people's customs are most unusual. Here we wash our clothes and our bodies separately.”

“It's a time saver!”

“Yes, but—well, don't you stay cold and wet much longer?”

“Shit. I didn't think of that.”

**)O(**  


Back in the tent, a still-nude Derek frowned, holding the kilt out. “I don't have a spare tunic with me. I suppose you can wear the _Breacan an Fhéilidh_ just by itself, but the wool may chafe.” 

“No, it's cool dude, I got underwear. I'm all set.” Why did Derek look all concerned, all... thinky... when he thought about Stiles' ass getting chapped? 

“Underwear?”

“Yeah, underwear, you know, clothes that just cover, uh, I mean, for wearing underneath of your other clothes...”

“Like the tunic?”

“Yes, ah, no. Um.”

“I do not understand. Show me.”

Fucking shit not happening. Derek just sat there, still offering that enormous fucking blanket of a kilt, and Stiles was, Stiles was _really damn cold and shivering and I really will have to take my wet clothes off eventually, I knew that, but oh my god, if I don't get laid after this shit, I will die_. He tried for a sarcastic huff, just 'cause. “Fine.” He tried to resist, he really did, but the universe refused.

He grabbed at the hoodie first, still literally dripping, and threw it in the corner, next to his sneakers. Then the T-shirt, 'cause he was right there. And then. Fuck. Pants. He unbuttoned, unzipped, yanked the soaked denim roughly down his legs and wrestled it off his ankles.

“And this,” he tried for a Vana White, but the angle was sorta unwieldy, “is underwear. Keeps everything nice and tidy, you know, it's not scratchy. It's nice.”

“I like it!” Derek was definitely staring at his junk. And leaning closer. Seemed his junk wanted to respond in kind. Shit. Was he—was he sniffing? That, that was sniffing. Also now touching. The fuck.

Stiles' poor mouth could only close so much, and certainly not with so much sexual tension crowded into such a small tent. “So like, where're you going with all this? Because I don't know what shit is like in your time, but I know in my time, when dudes start getting this close there's gonna be a whole bunch of jizz real soon and is that even cool here? Because I know a lot of places aren't cool with the gay. Obviously I'm from California, well, it's probably not obvious to you and actually you said you didn't know where I'm from but I am and in Cali they are definitely down with homos. And it's probably pretty clear by now that I'm no stranger to man love because do you see that? I am hard just from your eyeballs. Christ I should really stop talking if I want there still to be any chance of this.” Stiles clapped a hand over his mouth in hopes of following his own advice. And prayed.

His eyes were fixed firmly on Derek's right cheekbone, a hairsbreadth from eye contact, but Derek looked up at his face then, back at his crotch, face—and finally noticed the ink climbing his legs and torso, spilling down his arms. “Your woad is very fine.”

“My wo-what?”

“Your _woad_ ,” Derek rolled his eyes, like it was common knowledge or something, and traced the lines of the tattoo on his left thigh.

Stiles kept his eyes firmly glued to Derek's face; he didn't think he could control himself if he looked down and saw Derek's hands on him. “Oh, oh you mean my tattoos, yeah, thanks, I like them a lot. Got a whole bunch while I was in undergrad. Went to this shop by my college to celebrate surviving the semesters, at first, and then I got my own gear to save some money—any time in residency I had enough sleep I worked on myself. Did most of these ones on my legs.” Speaking of, that shithead Derek was still caressing him. Not saying anything about the appropriateness of doing the nasty in whenever-the-fuck Scotland, mind you, just touching. And not his cock, either. High up on his thighs, thumbs tracing the edge of the underwear, fingers stroking his legs and hips.

So.

God.

Damn.

Lightly.

“The fuck are you doing, Derek? Are you going to touch me or not? I'm going crazy over here.”

“Touch you where, Stiles?” He really sounded like he didn't know, which was—which was just fucking ridiculous. Especially considering how close he was to the erection in question.

Stiles looked desperately at Derek's hands and face, so close he could feel the warm breath on his thighs... his thighs! “Motherfuck! Those aren't my tattoos! Holy hell how does this shit even happen to me? First I wake up in a completely different country and century than I should be in, then the supposedly permanent ink on my body on my body fucking changes overnight? ...Actually though, I kinda like these ones better... are those _dragons_ on my arm? That's pretty sweet.”

Derek stared at him. “Your people are strange indeed.”

Stiles for once didn't look at his beautiful face; he was entranced, staring at the new designs. Not only were the shapes different, they looked like they'd been done with different tools,more scars under the ink than he was used to. Some of them were _old_. The dragons, for instance, one daintily curving around each forearm, was faded as if decades old. Obviously impossible. Obviously. Like the tattoos he had gotten there in sophomore year, these were filled with intricate Celtic knotwork. These knots, however, were so small they could only be made out with eyes two inches away. At six inches, they looked like scales, and at nine, appeared a solid blue-black.

Thin, tight circles of runes ran over the knobby bones of his wrists, passed under the dragons' necks. Now that he looked, he saw similar bracelets around his ankles, and above that-

“Stiles? I do not know what has happened to your tattoos, or why. Perhaps we can find answers later. For now—I do not like to see you so distressed. Do you—do you still want me to touch you?”

“What? Are you serious? You know you're hot like lava, right?” No response from Derek other than cocking his head in confusion. “Yes! Please. So hard for you, god, please just touch me, my c-”

Derek wasted no time, sliding his heavy fingers and palms firmly over the length of Stiles' dick, back and forth a few times through the underwear. 

“Yes, dude, fucking yes!” Stiles collapsed backwards onto the bed, head towards Derek's legs, and immediately started petting all the skin he could reach. He took Derek's red, dripping cock as returned interest. “Derek—tell me if I do anything you don't like,” he panted, mouth centimeters from the larger man's pulsing vein, before he dove into an epic tonguebath of Derek's cock, balls, and general lower stomach/upper legs area.

For his part, Derek was struggling with the mysterious underwear; when he finally freed Stiles' boner, he wrapped one strong hand around it and buried his nose in the join of the other man's hip, breathing heavily and—yes, that was definite nibbling. Biting, even. Shit. Couldn't take anymore of this. Stiles sat up, straddled Derek's upper thighs and grabbed both cocks in one hand, humped furiously as he felt them rub together, kissed Derek shamelessly, hard and deep and dirty, until they both came.

At which point Stiles just toppled forward, pleased and panting.

They lay like that, sweaty and lethargic and (at least on Stiles' part) so blissed out that fuck time traveling, really, because who cares?

Derek spoke first. “We should move before we're stuck together. Looks like it's into the river for you again.”

“Shit, I guess so. Uh—so, this wasn't your first time? Doing man things?”

Derek gave him a look he couldn't quite pin down. “No... when you are a soldier, or a sailor, you're away from the wife a long time.”

“How long have you been away from your w-wife?” Where did that fucking stutter come from.

“I haven't one. But it is not uncommon.”


	3. In Which Stiles Learns Derek is the Most Fun to Go Down On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waiting until chapter three to write an extended blowjob scene is slow burn by my standards. I'm really making an effort at plot here.

Stiles could only think of one explanation that didn't involve him losing all contact with reality, so when they got back to the tent after bathtime number two, he blurted, “Do you know anyone who knows magic? Because, like, shit's been real weird. And also, can I kiss you again? Because that was nice and shit has been real god damn weird.”

“Yes to both. Uh. I suppose there's not much point to getting the kilt on you if we're going to start kissing.” Derek pushed aside the bolt of cloth he had started to fold.

“Awesome!” Stiles punched the air as he straddled Derek, suddenly noticing the underoos he was in were the X-Men briefs he'd had since high school. _He doesn't have any way to know that isn't suave grown up shit to do though, so it's all good._ Before kissing Derek's mouth, he grabbed a fistful of hair and tugged gently, exposing soft throatskin and clavicle. The groan Derek released made his dick thick and his heart pound. Stiles ground his hips down and let his teeth sink into the rope of muscle connecting Derek's neck and shoulder, causing a breathy moan. The noise was small, but possibly the sexiest sound Stiles had ever heard—especially coming out of a man like that. “Derek. Do you like it rough?”

“Yes.” Stiles might even be tempted to call that a whimper. Holy hell.

“Do you like being bossed around?”

“I... don't know?”

“Would you like to find out?”

Nothing but a little fidgeting with the kilt.

“Derek. We can try it and if you don't like it, that's fine. Or we don't try it and that's fine. Or we try it and you do like it, which is fucking badass.”

“What if you don't like it?”

Stiles chuckled. “I already know I like bossing people around, and I like sex, and I _really_ like getting off with you, and I really, really like kissing you, so I think I'll be aight. And if I'm not, I'll tell you and that's okay too. Thank you for your concern though.” He nudged Derek impatiently. “You still haven't answered the question!”

“I think... maybe just a little bit? M-maybe if it's something I wanted to do anyway? But if you don't want to you could still kiss me some more and-” Derek seemed to run out of words; tugging absently on his hair, he stared at Stiles with a pleading look.

“You want me to pull your hair some more?”

Nod.

“You want me to bite you again?”

More nodding. Lots more nodding.

“Anything... else you want me to do?”

A slow nod.

“If you tell me what it is, maybe I can hook you up...”

“I... I like it when you're on top of me.”

“Oh yeah?” Stiles pushed lightly on Derek's shoulders, tipping them both flat on the bed as he straddled his sweet bottom's waist. “And do you like being held down while strange men you found in the woods have their wicked way with you?”

Stiles ran flat hands up Derek's sides, armpits, arms. As he circled Derek's wrists with light fingers, the larger man threw his head back, showing his whole throat, and gasped, “Oh, goddess, yes!” in a gravelly voice.

Stiles could get used to this. “I want you to tell me if I do anything you don't like, or if there's anything you'd rather I do. Got that?”

“I... under... stand.” Derek was panting now.

“Good boy!” After that, Stiles lost no time. He pushed down on Derek's wrists and buried his teeth in muscle and beard. Derek seemed at a loss for what to do—unable to move his hands or kiss Stiles, he settled for bucking his hips fruitlessly as he sought any type of friction against his straining cock.

“Looks like there's something you want.” Stiles craned his neck to gaze appreciatively behind him, looked mischievously down at his prey, spread out and vulnerable beneath him. Derek's usually knee-length tunic had ridden up considerably and even though Derek's fully vertical boner stopped it getting too far, Stiles was treated to a tantalizing view of inner thighs and ass and furry balls between Derek's spread legs.

“Fuck. Yes. Stiles. Need you!”

“Keep your hands where I put them.” He flowed down the hairy body like water, eyes fixed on Derek's face for any reaction.

“Stiles—just bathed—gonna make mess.”

“I won't spill a drop,” Stiles grinned, and started licking at Derek's balls. When the hair was wet enough he was sure it wouldn't tug uncomfortably going in, he promptly captured both testicles in his mouth, running his tongue over them in their confines, around and around and around. He figured when you're obviously hallucinating or maybe having some sort of near-death experience you can't get diseases, so, fuck yeah!

Derek made a noise that wouldn't have surprised him coming from a hungry kitten, high and needy, except that buried somewhere under all the keening was a rough rhythm of, “Please please please please...”

Stiles held off as long as he could, really, worshiping Derek's balls before moving down to nuzzle his taint, lap gently at his red, waiting asshole. Stiles wanted the sweet thing under him loose and open and dripping fucking wet before he moved on—but he looked up at a particularly loud moan from Derek and saw actual tears of fucking bliss sliding down Derek's insanely happy face and just couldn't contain himself any longer.

With his knees, he pushed Derek's thighs wider apart, settling down into the blanket below him, and smirked down at his handywork. Derek had gone from an intimidating tower of muscle, ferocity, and eyebrows to a trembling pile of anticipation, need, and wide-eyed desperation. “Still into this, baby boy?”

Derek nodded so hard Stiles worried he might hurt his neck.

“Good, good,” Stiles crooned gently. “Now I don't know how it's been for you before, if people wanted you to wait to come or whatever-”

“Never. Before. Not like. This,” Derek hissed. He seemed to be having difficulty talking. Also breathing.

So. Kilty McEyebrows was new to subbing. Stiles filed that under “Holy Fucking SHIT” in his mind and turned back to the task at hand. “Right. So. I don't care how long or how short it takes, you go ahead and come whenever and if you don't like it or you want me to stop or take a break or _anything_ , say so or just tap me on the head if it's hard for you to speak. Okay?”

Derek nodded.

“I'm gonna need you to talk here. Will you be able to tell me if you need me to stop or change it up?”

Derek swallowed hard and took a few deep breaths, obviously trying to pull himself together. “Yes. Stiles. I can do that.”

“Great!” Stiles' face cracked open in a wide grin as he swooped forward to engulf Derek's cock in his mouth—except he didn't, quite. Opening his mouth impossibly wide (truth be told, he had to unhinge his jaw just slightly) Stiles slowly, painstakingly lowered his head down, down, down until Derek's cock was a little over halfway inside his mouth. But not touching. Stiles steeled his will and just rested there, panting harshly, until Derek began to beg.

“Oh! Please, Stiles, need more, need, need you, oh please, your mouth please...” At that, Stiles extended just the very tip of his tongue, snaking a painfully thin line from the base to the uncut tip, just fucking _soaked_ in precome. He'd planned on more teasing, but Stiles lost it at the taste, just gave in to himself and dove in like Derek's load was gonna be his last meal. He could hear, distantly, the muffled moan he made as he fucked his own throat with Derek's cock, but every fiber of his being focused on the taste and smell and feel and sound and sight, the glorious sight, of Derek unraveling beneath him.

Stiles' lips were already stretched tight and painful around the base of Derek's cock when he poked his tongue out to swipe at Derek's balls, full and high with arousal even though Stiles had barely started. His mouth was uncomfortably full and his jaw fucking ached, but it was so worth it. If he was being honest with himself, which was seldom, he loved going down on just about any kind of guy, hung, tiny, trans, cis, whatever. But there was something unmatchably satisfying about knowing that he was taking his body to the fucking limit to please someone, and doing a damn good job of it. The sore face the next day gave him the same quiet joy bruises on his hips or welts on his back did.

He slid his hands down the tops of Derek's parted legs as far as he could reach, slipped his hands around Derek's calves and dug his nails in as he dragged his hands back up, until his fingers were buried just below Derek's ass. Derek moaned with the pain, moving his legs of his own accord when Stiles started to push, brought his thighs up to rest on either side of his chest, shoving his cock yet further into Stiles' hot mouth as he exposed his ass and balls.

Stiles twisted the hand clenching one of Derek's thighs; Derek bucked at the sensation, gasping, “Yes yes yes,” breathlessly above him. Stiles watched his fingernails leave red lines on Derek's skin and hummed in appreciation as he used his other hand to delicately trace the seam on Derek's sack.

When he could no longer breathe, he pulled back and licked the sloppy cock clean of drool and precome, long swipes from base to tip and back again as he waited for the oxygen-deprived dizziness to fade. Then he shifted his weight and moved up to the glans, flicking his tongue back and forth across the tip as if spitshining it. He kept this up for a long time, focusing his licking and sucking on one area with the single-minded determination of someone intent on memorizing every aspect of one experience before moving on to the next.

The sensation, pointedly intense as it was, was never enough to bring Derek over the edge but it certainly drove him up the fucking wall.

Stiles attacked first the head, then the base, then the vein bulging its way up the underside, then the smooth top of it 'cause he always thought the top got the short end of the stick attention-wise, then pulled back the foreskin to lap delicately at the ridge and probe lightly at the slit, then the whole routine again, over and over until he couldn't contain himself, until his throat ached with emptiness and he just _needed_.

Without warning, Stiles dove in and sucked hard, hollowed his cheeks as he bobbed up and down, endeavoring that his tongue touch every centimeter of Derek's cock on each and every pass, wrapping around and around like streamers on a Maypole. Something in Derek's scent shifted, then, became a little sweeter, a little more desperate, and he realized Derek was about to come. Stiles didn't want to end the fun, not yet, so he retreated to the tip of Derek's cock, ghosted his fingers down to just under Derek's ass, to just where his ass cheeks began to split. Stiles kept his eyes fixed on Derek's face as he gingerly closed his teeth right below the head, lips drawn back. No pressure yet, just the implicit threat and danger of sharp teeth on soft skin.

“YES! Oh goddess yes oh-”

The mindless babble was Stiles' cue to continue; he increased the force of his jaws ever-so-slightly as he spread Derek's ass and pressed the pad of one long thumb against Derek's hole.

“Oh, Stiles, gonna-” and then he shoved his fist in mouth, effectively muffling any and all noises.

 _Shit, really?_ Stiles thought, totally forgetting his intention of making Derek not come yet. _Apparently I have traversed the fabric of spacetime especially to find the universe's most beautiful painslut._ And then he stopped thinking and set to the task at hand with gusto, wrapped his lips around the shaft, sunk his teeth in just a bit, and beat mercilessly at the head with his tongue. He wanted to look up and see the face Derek was making to match that absolute yell of pleasure, he really did, but his whole world was reduced to Derek's cock in his mouth, and he clenched his eyes shut to better focus on the sensation.

He was rewarded, in short order, with jet after jet of thick come, salty and just a little bitter. And holy-crap-delicious. So delicious, in fact, that he came untouched as the taste filled his senses and he ground hard into the floor of their little tent.

With a great force of will, Stiles relaxed his mouth's grip on Derek's slowly softening cock, not wanting to over-stimulate him to the point of tapping out. Almost regretfully, Stiles swallowed the load rolling around in his mouth, humming contentedly to himself as he suckled gently. When Derek's cock had softened completely, he wrapped his lips over his teeth and carefully clamped down right at the base, squeezing every last bit out as he dragged his mouth upward. _Like a freezy pop_ , he thought, and then had to giggle at how thoroughly that joke would go over everyone's head here. He turned those few drops over on his tongue, savoring them before swallowing those too. He sat up and gazed down at Derek who was spread out before him, flushed and panting and so relaxed he looked liquid, like he might drip off onto the ground and disappear completely.

Then, remembering his earlier promise about not making a mess, he bent down again and lapped up his own spilled saliva (which had dripped down even onto the blanket—he left that where it was); he started at Derek's ass, taking a brief detour to suck a dark hickey onto one thigh, continued up—paying careful, slow attention to the perineum and balls—until everything was super clean and Derek was letting out these breathy little moans with every lick to his still-leaking slit.

“So...I didn't really expect that to be so, you know, intense,” Stiles commented casually, as if he _wasn't_ nuzzled into Derek's pubes, giving the Abs of Motherfucking Glory tiny butterfly kisses.

At that, Derek fucking _whimpered_ , a noise Stiles was more used to hearing from baby animal Youtube stars. “So good... thank you, Stiles.”

Stiles tilted his head back to gaze at Derek, rubbing the side of his face against the man's hip and speaking between light licks. “Fun fact: I actually put my teeth on you because it seemed like you might come, and even though I told you to do that whenever you felt like, I wasn't really ready to stop sucking you off because—ughhh—you are so hot and your cock feels so damn _right_ in my mouth. But learning that you're so fucking into pain? Is totally worth it. Assuming I get to do that again. Soon. And often.”

Derek moaned at that, broke eye contact with Stiles as he flopped one enormous forearm over his eyes. “Goddess, Stiles—you can't just say—you're going to kill—yes, okay. Soon and often.”

Stiles placed one last, chaste kiss right at the tip of Derek's dick and crawled up to snuggle into that big muscley pillow of a chest.

“Feel bad, you didn't-”

Stiles interrupted. Poor thing was obviously having trouble stringing a sentence together. “Oh, uh, don't worry. I did. I, you know, really like giving blow jobs and your cock is like a work of art, man, a damn masterpiece, so... yeah.” Stiles blushed hotly at what he was admitting before reading the confusion on Derek's face. A little too embarrassed to out-and-out say it, Stiles just grabbed one of Derek's hands and impatiently shoved it against the wet spot in his underwear. “You're nice and clean but I... am gonna need another bath. And so is my underwear.”

“Three baths in one morning?” Derek raised one eyebrow. “You will be very clean indeed.” And then he grinned, wide and sudden, as if he had been trying to be serious and couldn't quite manage. “It's good we got such an early start on the morning—but we cannot stay in bed all day. The men will be getting up soon, and we should ride out to Deaton.”

 _So the sex part of the day—no, wait, let's be optimistic here—of the morning is over. Time for logistics. Damn,_ Stiles thought. Aloud he said only, “Deaton?”

“He is the nearest mage I can trust with our cause. There are rumors he will be the next merlin. Perhaps he will be able to help you with your tattoos.”

“So, well, this might sound odd, but I, uh, I woke up in a totally different place yesterday than I did today, and-” _Just get it over with, dude, just spit it out._ “What is your cause? I mean, I know some history, I'm pretty sure we're in Scotland, but—shit, _when_ are we?”

Derek didn't speak at first, merely gazed at him for several moments with a long, measuring look. “Most of this is best discussed with Deaton, I think, but I can tell you now the year is 1746. I do not know the date, precisely, but it's sometime in March and the moon has begun to wane.”

At that, Stiles fell silent, eyes huge and round.

“Come now.” Carefully, Derek placed one huge hand on Stiles' shoulder and caressed him gently. “The other men will be getting up soon. Let's get you cleaned up and dressed and ride out. Get some answers for you. Yes?”

Stiles nodded slowly. “Answers... would be. Good. That answer—it, it surprised me. It's... a long time.”

Derek leaned slowly in, both hands now closed on Stiles' shoulders, slid those hands down the slim but muscled back as his eyes searched Stiles'. “I do not know how you got here, or why, but I am glad to have met you. I-” Derek's eyes dropped then, and he leaned back as if he was going to break away from Stiles. “I will help you however I can.” With that, he leaned forward again, brushing a small kiss onto Stiles' forehead.


	4. In Which Stiles Takes It All In Stride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just rewrite my own family's history in hopes that latent werewolf powers will spontaneously crop up in me? Absolutely.
> 
> Hey, a boy can dream.

Stiles looked up at the spring sun, which beamed faintly down on the Highlands, and thought it must be midmorning. They had risen and bathed (again) and broken their fast and saddled up and ridden north for about an hour through steep, dramatic valleys before either of them said a word—Stiles in shock and Derek silently thoughtful.

“Stiles, I—I think it's important you know something. Something about me.”

They rode beside each other in an easy trot on their short, stout horses and although Stiles was new to riding and his legs fucking hurt, he felt comfortable enough in his mount's placidity to turn questioning eyes to Derek's face.

“Some of—the larger history—Deaton will explain better, but I can tell you why I am here. Maybe—maybe that will mean something to you, some clue as to why you ended up here as well.

“My mother was Scots, from the Clan Campbell. My father was English. Perhaps he loved her, once, but he did not stay much longer than to burden my older sister and me with his English name.

“I grew up in the clan life, surrounded by love and family, not knowing I was any different. My mother remarried, a man from another clan who I nonetheless respected, and they had more children. We had a big family, a good family, and I was a happy child.

“This part—is not something I tell often, or easily. When I was about nine, my mother took me aside. Told me I'd be starting to be a man soon, time for me to learn about my people. Told me about her family, the Campbells. They are not alone in this among the Highland tribes, but it is rare. My mother kept it a secret from my father but eventually wanted him to know the truth. It didn't go well. I was... young. I don't remember what happened, but we never saw him again.”

Derek fell silent then, face turned away from Stiles. After long minutes, he shifted both reins into his right hand and held his left out to Stiles, fingers splayed. Stiles looked back and forth—hand to face to hand again—in confusion.

Derek finally met his eyes. “Stiles. Look at my hand.” As Stiles watched, the flat, square nails lengthened, thickened, sharpened, became... became _claws_. “My family—has certain abilities, certain traits-” Derek's face changed then too, teeth growing, hair sprouting, eyes glowing red.

“Dude! You're a werewolf!”

“You... know about us?”

“Yeah! I mean, in my time, in my world, there are books and movies and all kinds of things about werewolves.”

“You... are not scared?” Derek seemed to be having some trouble processing Stiles' lack of trouble processing.

“I'm, y'know, it's a little surprising, but I figure if you wanted to hurt me or something, you wouldn't have rescued me in the first place. And honestly? I'd probably be freaking out wayyyyy more, but the last couple days—I just touched a fucking tree and suddenly I'm 250 years in the damn past for chrissakes—it's like, of course, of course I've been rescued by an insanely hot werewolf who just so happens to be an incredible painslut and a beautiful, beautiful sub. I mean, I'm pretty sure this is actually a super long and incredibly detailed wet dream, so I might as well go along with it, you know?”

“I don't understand all of the words you use, and I am pretty well convinced that this is real and not a dream... but if it is, I hope you stay asleep for a long time.”

Stiles grinned, impishly looking over at Derek, and grabbed the still-outstretched clawed hand. “So, do you go crazy on the full moon or what? Turn into a fiendish sex monster?”

Derek smiled at him, sadly, and gazed off at the horizon again. “I am not ready to joke yet. My story is not over. A few years after my mother told me about our family, my older sister and I were out running, exercising our bodies and strengthening our control over the shift. And while we were gone, my father returned.

“He came with a regiment of the English army and a family of French hunters. He—I was told he killed my mother, my little siblings, himself. The hunters trapped them in our house and he burned them alive. Then he rode through the village at the head of his soldiers, destroying everything in his path.

“When Laura and I came back—there was nothing left of our family but ash and bones and my mother's alpha pendant, half-melted into her skeleton.” Derek reached into his shirt and pulled out a pendant on a long chain.

 _How did I not notice that?_ Stiles thought. _Is he that hot, or is his chest hair that thick? Maybe both—definitely both._

“Laura wore it for a time, when she became the alpha. But then—my father tracked her down and killed her. His own daughter. And now I wear it.” Derek's face was starting to scare Stiles; it burned with a fierce fire, an undercurrent of fury that was both completely understandable and completely terrifying. “And now I will track him down. Kill him as he killed my sister. Burn the hunters as they burned my family. But I will not stop there. Never will I stop, until Scotland is free of the English scourge!” He exhaled, looking bewildered, as if he hadn't planned on saying so much.

“Derek... Derek... I can't imagine the level of pain you've had to go through. But I am here. For you. I want to help you with your mission, and I want to help you be happy again.”

“It is good to have met you, Stiles. I did not mean to burden you with all... this... so soon, only to tell you my true nature in case—in case you were disgusted, I would not have led you on too long. But now you know, and you want to help us, and maybe when we arrive at Deaton's he will know about your woad, and perhaps he will know how you fit into our plans.”

“I could never be disgusted with you, Der. I was so confused when I landed here yesterday, b-but now-” Stiles felt the hot blush crawl up his chest and paint his face bright red. “Now I am only glad I am here for you.”

Derek smiled at him then, a small thing, as if he were not used to sharing this happy part of himself, opened his mouth to speak, shut it again, opened it. “We're nearing Deaton's now. We'll have to ride single file. Stay close to me; the path is tricky here. It would be dangerous to fall behind.”

Stiles nodded and nudged his horse closer to Derek as he wondered what the broad man _hadn't_ said. They rode in silence for a few minutes, down a rocky cliff and through a winding ravine until Derek pulled up suddenly and dismounted, leading his horse through an archway in the stone that Stiles would never have seen if the object of his attentions hadn't just disappeared through it. He hastily followed suit, padding quietly behind the wide rump of Derek's horse. Both beasts were calm—they must have been here before, to be so relaxed in such a strange place to be a horse.

After a few feet, the clanging rock gave way to soft dirt. They walked for perhaps fifteen minutes without talking in total darkness; only the muffled noise of the horse's hooves let Stiles know where to go.

“So, nightvision? Is that one of your super powers?”

“I said no joking.” He sounded amused, though. Not much, mind you, but Stiles thought probably he wasn't used to expressing the feels.

“I am surprisingly not joking. This is just my natural level of sassmouth.”

“I—can see better than you, but not in the pitch black. I'm touching the wall. It's one of my common sense powers. And... in here, to the right. There is a stable.”

Stiles turned, trusting blindly in Derek's voice (and, very recently, his own finger trailing the wall). “Common sense powers, huh? Those sound cool. Maybe a little easier to get through residency with common sense powers...” Here, at last, there was light—a single beam of white sun burst through a hole high up in the wall and illuminated a natural stone cave outfitted with several rough wooden stalls. Most were empty, but one at the end was occupied by a horse short and muscular as their own, though a darker brown.

“Deaton is home then. Good.” They spent a few minutes settling the horses then, gave them hay and water and then set to grooming their rough coats. Derek gave Stiles some tips on proper brush strokes, which Stiles blatantly manipulated into rubbing himself all over teacher-Derek in the name of “hands on education.” And may have made a joke about stroking. Just one. Possibly two. You know, like mature people do.

“Stiles, if you give us a minute to actually groom the horses, we'll be able to go talk to Deaton.”

“Oh. Oh! That would be awesome!”

It got a bit quieter.

**)O(**

Stiles was done with chores and had just leaned his forehead against his horse's neck, enjoying the stillness and sweet smell of straw, when he felt Derek's cautious hand at his wrist. “Stiles, I—thank you. Just thank you.”

Stiles turned around then, smiling gently down at Derek, and closed the distance between them with one short step and several soft kisses. “I don't know what you're so grateful for, but whatever it is—you are so. Damn. Welcome.”

“You—I—When I-” Derek shrugged and let himself babble on. “I feel open around you. I can be honest. I can be myself. I've had so many walls up for so long and it's just good to—to _not_.” The look on his face was so trusting, broken and yet shining with determination, that Stiles wanted to melt, wanted to wrap Derek in his arms and never let him go. But-

“It's time for me to meet Deaton, hm? Time to learn how to help you?”

“Yes, Stiles—yes.” His arms wrapped around Stiles then, and their mouths bruised with kisses before he pushed them apart, groaned loudly in frustration, and strode down the dark hall. After a few minutes, they came to a lit doorway, which turned out to be a kitchen.

“Deaton,” he grunted with a curt nod. “Stiles-” he indicated with a jerk of his chin, hands tucked into his belt, “appeared yesterday. Covered in tattoos. Not the tattoos he woke up with yesterday morning.” If this was how he talked to a friend and ally he said he trusted, Stiles could certainly see what he meant about opening up. He acted like a different man entirely.

“Indeed?” Deaton arched one eyebrow at Derek before turning his gaze to Stiles. Then again, maybe that was just how folks talked around here.

“In-fucking-deed. I'm from California, in America. In the year 2022. I just finished school and moved to a new town and I was walking around in the woods yesterday, and I found this huge creepy old stump and I tried to climb up on it, but then, but then I was _here_ and this sketchy English dude found me and I think was trying to jump my bones-” (okay, that was seriously a motherfucking _growl_ from the peanut gallery) “-but then Derek rescued me and when we were, uh, I mean after... yeah, so... when we were—bathing, I noticed my tattoos were all changed, so... yeah.” Stiles stammered the end, choked on the syllables as he felt the flush on his neck and face.

“May I see the new tattoos?”

“Dude I don't even know where—wait, time traveling is not a thing for you?”

Deaton was very smug. “It's possible the tattoos will show many answers.”

Before Stiles could decide whether to object to stripping in front of a stranger, Derek flashed his eyes at Deaton. “Stiles knows. I told him we'd talk more about his role with you but he knows. About me. About my family.”

“I see. Stiles?”

Stiles decided to just get it over with already and quickly shed all his clothes except his underwear, trying not to remember Derek's fascination with them (or really, Derek's presence at all—so not the time for a boner). He stood awkwardly in Deaton's small kitchen, shifting from foot to foot as the man circled him. The noise of a scratching pen bounced loudly around the room.

“Do you know any runic languages?” Deaton asked as he sat at the table, seemingly done with the examination.

“Nope.” Stiles popped the p loudly, trying to cover his nerves with false nonchalance. “I can speak Polish fluently, read it a little, but that's not runes. Uh, clothes? Can I?”

“For now.” Stiles wrapped the kilt around himself, willed himself not to look at Derek. Failed. He leaned insolently against the wall. Only his eyes gave him away—green again, but blazing with sex lasers. “You have many runes, so we will start there: reading writing, using. You will join me on my walks and rides, to learn about animals and plants of power. You have many of those as well, mainly on your legs and torso. When you begin to be conversant in the more basic earthly powers, we will move on to the dragon on your arms and the moons on your forehead.”

“My _forehead?!_ ” Stiles squawked. “My boss is gonna kill me!”

Deaton raised one eyebrow, seemingly in reprimand, and continued as if he'd not been interrupted. “You clearly have been dedicated to the Lady and when we work through these things, I believe you will be prepared to begin serving her, representing her cause in the material realm.”

“And the Lady is...?”

“The goddess. She has many faces, many roles and forms, but you will primarily serve the Lady of the Moon; the obvious connection to Derek here cannot be overlooked.”

“And the, er, connection to Derek is what, exactly?”

“Well, the... _form_ your relationship takes will be up to the two of you, of course. But it is clear that you were sent here, to this time and place, to serve as Derek's emissary—both in the traditional role of pack mage and advisor, and to assist in his quest to drive out the British.”

“Same thing here,” Derek growled softly. “Have to drive them out to reestablish pack lands.”

“Indeed. Our goddess is not always the raven of war, but when she is...”

“How long will he be away from m—I mean, how long will the training last?”

“For the first month, I will need his uninterrupted, undivided attention. After that, I will need him here for most of every week, each turn of the moon, and a few days around each point of the wheel until his training is complete. How long that will take is largely up to him and the goddess. And during training, of course, the two of you will need to meet periodically for bonding sessions.”

“So... what all tattoos do I have? You've been kinda vague?”

“You have all the markings of an experienced Druid and emissary, not those of a novice. For this, I think your training will progress rapidly. As to the specifics of each tattoo, I think discovering them together will be a good first bonding exercise. Take this book with you.” Deaton tossed a slim leatherbound volume towards him and turned his attention to Derek. “Take him to the standing stones. You may stay in my cave there. Bring him back for initiation under the new moon. I will send a message to your men; they will be ready for an attack on the following full moon. And Stiles—if any of them are _unchanged_ , look just how you remember them, you must tell me.

“It is late. Stay here tonight and be comfortable. I will be in my workroom and shan't see you before you leave, but I will set out supplies for your journey.”


	5. In Which Shit Gets Tender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things this time:
> 
> [1] I'm finna be on the other side of the country from my computer next week. Enjoy the double update this week, as there won't be one next Sunday.  
> [2] So... I know many people view simultaneous orgasms as some sort of weird internet trope, but they are literally all I know, so, y'know, they're very believable to me. I'm actually toning down my usual experience to make this all more believable to my fucking amazing readers. Because, of course, believability is what we go for in a story about time travel, werewolves, and magically shifting tattoos.  
> [3] I'm currently working on a chapter a few weeks out that is just sex. All the sex, in all the ways. So if any of you lovely, magical people who comment and kudo and subscribe and make me smile and feel so fucking good about myself have a particular scene you'd like me to shove in there, do let me know. Don't worry if it breaks the mold of what's been in the story thus far. Service oriented smut writer over here wants to make the whole internet cream their pants.

“Do you think he knows?” Stiles was trying to be good and study the runic book, really, but... damn.

“Knows? He knows many things.”

“About us, you know, that we...”

“That we're lovers?” Stiles nodded, and the scent of his relief joined the arousal already thick in the air. “I think that is his intention; whether he knows or not I could not say. Certainly it is not late, barely mid-afternoon, and we have been sent to our room already.”

“It seems he hides a lot. Why do you trust him so much?”

“He used to be more forthcoming, when he was the emissary. But now, one of his greatest assets to our cause is his ability to see what each person needs and give them that. No more.”

“And what about your... needs?” Stiles scooted the book aside and rolled onto his back, stretched to arch his torso off the small mattress and press the back of his head firmly into the pillow.

Immediately, Derek straddled him, face buried in one armpit as the wolf whuffed his scent and—whimpered? “Need you Stiles, need your smell, need your touch...”

“Should I give you just that and no more?” Stiles teased. “Just enough for what you _need_ -” He was cut off by a rough kiss, teeth and tongue and Derek's weight pressing him back into the bed.

And growling, definite growling from Derek. “I'll never get enough of you. Need all of you, Stiles, need you in me, around me.” He appeared to be at a loss for words here and bit down on Stiles' neck.

“Oh—shit, Der. Yes. Yes biting. Fuck! Want you to oh, oh, ohhh, want you to claim me. Need you inside me, gonna share everything I have with you—mmph!” Stiles sucked Derek's proffered fingers with the same gusto he had shown for Derek's cock earlier and soon enough, Derek was kissing him again as two large, dripping fingertips pressed flat to his hole, rubbing firm, slow, promising circles into the tight muscle there. “Ohhh, god, god, yes... inside, please, please Derek, I need...”

For all his biting and bursting muscles, Derek was a surprisingly tender lover, gazing into Stiles' eyes as he pushed the first finger in, brow furrowed gently in concern and concentration.

Stiles stopped with words then, but didn't get any quieter—moan after gasp after whimper came from his red, swollen lips. Derek slowly, systematically worked the entirety of his thick middle finger in before adding the index.

When Derek brushed his prostate, he fucking _screamed_.

He managed to squeeze a few brain cells into functioning when he felt a third finger at his entrance. “Is there, uh, oil or something? A couple fingers I can do with just spit, but for, for more, I'm gonna need some lube.”

Without removing his fingers, Derek leaned over and fumbled in the basket beside the bed. He apparently found what he was looking for, returning to his careful fingerfuck as he swung his body over Stiles', weight resting on the forearm above Stiles' head. The eye contact was _intense_. Eye contact plus kissing? Shit.

Stiles moaned loudly into Derek's mouth. “Fuck, Derek, need more, another finger, please, god.”

His lover obligingly kissed him again before getting up, shifting backwards. Derek settled back onto his haunches, burning Stiles with his gaze, and poured oil onto his palm, spread his two fingers so the oil trickled down into Stiles. “You're so, oh goddess, you're so beautiful, my Stiles, mine.” He stroked a third fingertip against Stiles' entrance, teasing (very meanly, considering the level of desperation involved) before sliding the digit in and curling all three fingers up and into Stiles.

“F-fff-ff-FUCK, Derek! Oh my god, fuck me already.” He didn't get a verbal reply, but he didn't get a cock in his ass, either. Which, rude. It felt like a geologic age passed before Derek added a fourth, twisting his fingers as he pushed. “Look, four fingers equals definitely ready, okay? What are you waiting for, anyway?”

“I don't want to hurt you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, didn't even try to be subtle about it. “This isn't my first time, I swear. Go ahead.”

Eventually, Derek pulled his hand away. Stiles pushed himself up on his elbows to watch what came next. Derek poured more oil onto his hand, then began to spread it over his cock—and when he looked up to see Stiles slack-jawed and staring, he smirked and continued to stroke himself, but slower. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Dammit, Derek, you know I am but I'd be enjoying myself an awful lot more if you were actually inside me.”

Derek crawled forward on his knees, slipping his dripping dick between Stiles' ass cheeks.

Stiles hooked his calves behind Derek's thighs and pulled in, never much concerned with tact. He moaned loudly as he finally felt the head enter and tried to pull Derek further in, all the way in, but the stronger man's hand on his hip and well-braced knees foiled his plans. “Please,” he whimpered, “give it to me.”

“I—that blowjob went on for a long time. And I like teasing you.”

“Is this revenge, is that what's happening now? Revenge is a dish best served on a pile of dickings‽ I... I probably deserve it, actually. And _oh my god_ the teasing is pretty good too.”

Derek, as it turned out, had an astonishing level (almost a superhuman level, you could say, though Stiles of course was too classy to do that) of control, which made him annoyingly good at teasing.

By the time Derek's hips pressed against his inner thighs, Stiles felt like he could cry in frustration. He tightened his legs to pull his weight up, rolled his hips and ground his ass wantonly into Derek. Derek moved his hands under Stiles' knees, held the tall man's weight up easily as he pulled back slowly, snapped his hips forward as he drove into Stiles again.

And again. And again. “Fuck, ohmygod Derek, yessss... yes, that's it... fuck me!”

Derek obliged for a few minutes, thrilled by the litany coming from his lover's lips. But then he shifted his weight backward, kneeling with spread knees, and easily pulled Stiles up to sit on his lap. He slid his left hand up Stiles' back to cup the base of his skull, wrapped his still-oily right hand around Stiles' purpling cock. He tightened his grip on Stiles' hair and tugged back to expose a long throat, buried his face to cover it in kisses and beard burn.

Stiles dug his nails into Derek's back and shoulders like grappling hooks, like he was liable to fall off the world, and turned his head to allow further neck access. He bit down on his own lip to muffle the let's-turn-it-to-eleven level screams, tasted the blood beading into his mouth as he felt his orgasm gathering strength deep in his belly.

He rolled his hips, thrusting up into Derek's hand and down onto his cock, never breaking eye contact as he tugged Der's face back up to a kissable level. At this distance, Derek had one huge grey-green eye peering intently into Stiles, into the depths of his self, seeing everything. He had never felt more vulnerable or more whole.

Stiles lost track of time, lost all sense of time, as Derek rocked up into him again and again without ever really pulling out. Their bodies locked together in pleasure—this was as far from fucking as anything Stiles had experienced in his long sexual history, a protracted pressure fraying his nerves firm and fluctuating as a sine wave. He knew he was about to come and dazedly observed himself thinking that surely the universe would come with him, the sensation was so intense, so overwhelming, so all-encompassing.

Their orgasms struck at the same moment, freezing them in mid-air as they peaked before shuddering down, melting them into each other. Derek rubbed his face in a pool of Stiles' sweat and lay back with Stiles collapsed on his torso, never pulling out.


	6. In Which Derek is a Sassy Lil Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Does Deaton give you lessons in being vague but sounding helpful? Or have you just figured out that this half-the-story bullshit is the fastest way to manipulate me? Okay, no matter how fucking devious that smile is, increasingly complex facial expressions are no way to hold up half a conversation._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Because Derek was an absolute ass, he said nothing as he rolled up the map and slid it into a leather case, but he did offer a series of ridiculous faces that left Stiles choking with laughter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All The Sex chapter due at the end of December. So far, it's just Stiles experimenting with werewolf healing and so much blood, but I am all about taking prompts/fills here.

The next morning, they awoke early and had an intense, but quick, mutual humping-and-biting session that left Stiles feeling just a little dumb as they walked down to the kitchen.

“Oh my god, dude is stocking us up!” The table was covered in neat rows of gear: a pair of saddle bags apiece, several books in varying languages, plenty of dried food and cooking supplies (including what he thought had to be excessive cooking oil unless they started deep-frying everything), extra clothes for Stiles, and a few blankets. “How long is it until the new moon, anyway?”

“Almost a fortnight.”

“That's, uh, a lot of oil for two weeks' cooking, don't you think?”

“Deaton does not always play his hand as close to his chest as he thinks he does,” Derek smirked. “Either he already knows about us—and we were not exactly quiet yesterday—or he is just making it very, very easy for us to decide the way he wants us to.”

“Why do you think he even cares? He told us the 'form' of our relationship was up to us, so why so much involvement from him, anyway?”

“An emissary plays a very important role in pack life, but that does not always convince them to stay. Not just anyone can do it, but not everyone who is chosen is willing to push their previous human life aside to tend to pack needs. Sometimes they leave, or ignore their wolves at a moment of crisis. I suspect Deaton worries this role will not be enough to... occupy you, to distract you from seeking a way back to your own time, by itself.”

“And he thinks you'll do a better job of keeping me occupied?” Stiles smirked.

“Keeping you here. Our last emissary—my mother's emissary—left, and that's when-”

Stiles started to smile, maybe crack another joke, when the import of Derek's words hit him fully. “Uh... you mean...”

Derek cleared his throat, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Er—here, I can show you how to pack the saddlebags so everything is secure and comfortable for the horse. But you should pick out some clothes from this pile first; yours are probably still wet from yesterday. Nothing dries here in the springtime.”

“Yeah, that... sounds good.” Stiles was pretty shaken by the idea of staying in 18th century Scotland for the rest of his life, but his nerves weren't all _bad_ nerves. He'd always been a bring-a-Uhaul-to-the-first-date kinda guy, and Derek was pretty spectacular so far (okay, yes, third day, still honeymoon period, shut UP, brain). He'd had a morbid fascination with the news since childhood, always got himself worked up and furious learning about the maltreatment of marginalized people, and sizable parts of him were all about the cause of Scottish independence. He was pretty partial to the cause of helping Derek feel a little better about all the terrible things that had happened to him, and if that was vengeance and vigilante justice, then vengeance and vigilante justice it was!

There were worse things that could happen to a guy than getting stuck in the superhero comic version of his own life, definitely.

But still—never seeing his dad again, that would be hard. It had been just them for so long; even when he was in school he would visit a couple weekends every month, called home more days than not. When his dad got transferred, relocating to sleepy Beacon Hills was a no-brainer. He was lucky to get a job at the hospital right off, but he would have done it anyway.

He had a few friends from school, but they'd all been too out of their minds with stress and poor time management skills to really bond. No serious relationships in the last few years, just a few friends-with-benefits arrangements and the occasional bathroom hookup on a Friday night.

He liked his job well enough, but he hadn't even had time to settle in yet. If he was being honest with himself... he already had more keeping him in 1746 than 2020. If only there was a way to check on his dad, to talk to him and let him know everything was okay.

Stiles was so lost in thought that by the time he dressed, Derek had packed all the saddlebags and was leaning against the huge kitchen table, arms crossed and eyebrows raised in question. “You never move this slowly. I said something to upset you.”

“No—kinda—not upset, exactly, just... you gave me a lot to think about. I just realized that, you know, I might really be here. Not crazy, not dreaming... really here. Really stuck here. And that itself isn't bad, either, but it's—a lot. And my dad. We're close. He must be worried.”

“No one... else?”

“Dude, are you worried I'm pining after someone else?”

Derek made a very small motion that could generously be described as a nod.

“No, no, it's nothing like that. I mean, I had a friend back home, this guy Scotty, and we fooled around a little, but it wasn't—it wasn't intense like this, and we weren't exclusive or anything. Well, monogamy isn't really my deal. But what we did was super low-key, just orgasms. I had, you know, I liked him but not like, not like... I like you a whole bunch, okay? I'd be pining for you if I was suddenly back home, but... you don't have to worry about me running off on you, alright?”

Derek pulled him in for a back-cracking hug then, rubbed his face against Stiles', bit down on the thinner man's neck. Stiles' breath was coming fast and loud; he pulled back and smirked contentedly as he examined his handiwork.

“The biting—is that a werewolf thing?”

“Mhmm,” Derek crooned, sounding exactly like the world's smuggest bastard.

“Is it, is it a sink-my-wolfy-teefers-in-delicious-meat thing, or more like a marking thing?”

“More like a marking thing. You ever see two dogs go at it?”

“Uh-huh...”

“Well, one of them always winds up with a mouthful of the other one's neck.”

“Yeah, but with dogs it's always the one doing the fucking that's also doing the biting. You're totally a bottom!”

“I think I showed you yesterday that I'm not _totally_ a bottom.” Eyeroll. “And I'm not a dog, either, I hope you know this is not coming from a drive to reproduce. It was an example of similar behavior you might have seen before.”

“Burn! Does anyone else know you're actually a sarcastic little shit? Because you usually have the stoic man in charge thing going for you, but this is brilliant!”

“I don't make a lot of jokes with other people... but I don't have to explain why biting feels good to people very often, either,” Derek commented flatly.

“Hey now, you don't have to tell me _why_ biting feels good, I am all about the biting! Love the biting! I just... you should probably know now I'm too curious for my own good and I get into lots and lots of awkward conversations because I don't understand it's rude to ask sometimes.”

“I noticed.”

“You are the actual worst. You are so mean.”

“I sure am. And right now I'm being mean and making us leave instead of bending over this table and letting you have your way with me.” Derek chose to demonstrate the precise level of his cruelty by bending forward, briefly, letting gravity do its thing and show off the near-flawless curves of his ass under the kilt.

“See what I mean? The worst!” But Stiles followed down the dark hall to the stables and mucked out the stalls while Derek got the horses loaded up. And he kept the under-the-breath muttering to a minimum, really.

“Stiles? You know I have excellent hearing, right?”

“Yeah? So?”

“I know what you're saying when you think you're talking to yourself. And I absolutely don't believe you won't fuck me later to make up for this morning.”

Stiles chose not to dignify that with a response, just led his horse outside and mounted like getting going at the crack of dawn was his idea, had always been his idea, and there was not a single other activity he would rather be doing.

**)O(**  


It was a long ride; they arrived near dusk and went immediately to the cave to rest the horses and unpack their gear. “We will go to the standing stones tomorrow. It is a ring of power; whyever Deaton sent us here, I know he had a reason. Your training is important, even though...”

“Yes?”

“Even though I am not looking forward to it. I've spent years without you near and never cared, but suddenly a month without you seems a very long time.”

“I don't even know how someone as scary as you got to be so fucking adorable, but it's doin' it for me.”

Derek pretended to be disgruntled at that, but when they tumbled into bed that night, a bit on the early side, he rode Stiles long and slow; his eyes never once left Stiles' face. After they came and caught their breath, he grabbed hold of Stiles' arm and rolled onto his side, pulling the other man in to be the big spoon; his longer, thinner frame perfectly traced the bold lines of Derek's back, ass, and legs. Stiles fell asleep immediately and didn't move from that position except to squirm closer, but Derek stayed awake, staring into darkness, for a long time, wondering what this new character would do to the fate of his pack—and that of his heart.

**)O(**  


The sunshine that woke them the next morning held the warm promise of summer, and Derek roused Stiles quickly, refusing to be distracted by the mole-spattered slopes of the other man's ribs and stomach. Not that Stiles was grouchy or immature about the lack of morning sex, not at all.

“Look, Deaton sent us here for bonding time-”

“-And to start your training. Breakfast first, then map, then stones. Then _maybe_ I'll let you seduce me before you start in on those runes.”

Stiles didn't make words, exactly, but he did make quite a few grumbles as he pulled on his clothes and stumbled down to the kitchen after Derek.

“Do you not want to know what the patterns on your skin say? Runes are powerful magic, and you don't have any idea what the ones on you mean, do you? You could be enchanted in any number of ways... if it was me, I'd need to know. What if they were dangerous? Or needed to be activated by something I did to be useful?”

Appealing to Stiles' sense of “let's be adults with adult priorities” was bound to fail, but appealing to his sense of “motherfucking RESEARCH!” was a resounding success. Stiles bounded back to the small bedroom and grabbed one of the books on runic languages before returning to the kitchen, plopping down and reading as Derek fixed them porridge and tea.

“We still have to look at the map and go see the stones this morning, you know,” Derek commented as he put two bowls of steaming mush on the table, though Stiles gave absolutely no sign of having heard. “Hello? Breakfast time?” He finally got the man's attention by heaping a spoon with oatmeal and shoving it into Stiles' face.

“Hey, hey now! No food near the books! I'll eat, I'll eat.”

Derek merely rolled his eyes, pointedly _not_ pointing out who exactly had brought the book into the danger zone, but since Stiles was eating now, he let it rest.

“Sorry. My mom always said books reach out and pull me in by the ears,” he added sheepishly. “I never notice anything else when I'm reading. On the plus side, I'm a really fast reader.”

“Good. Maybe your training will go quickly.”

Stiles looked affronted. “Maybe? I finished high school, undergrad, and med school early, and the actual doctors at residency said I was the most prepared new doc they'd ever seen. Okay, also the most accident-prone and spastic, but still. I learn good!”

“You are... a doctor?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just started my first grown up doctor job before I came here. I don't know how much of what I learned will really carry over, though, everything I learned was meant to be applied in a sterile hospital environment with lots of equipment and electricity and things. Probably half the stuff I learned about doesn't even exist here... man, I miss Wikipedia.”

“Still, it's good to know. I can heal myself, but some of the others fighting with us... you can stitch a wound? Set a bone?”

“If you have the supplies, sure. A nurse would probably do it faster and better, but I'll manage.”

Derek fixed him with a long, pale stare as they finished breakfast (which Stiles maybe should have been uncomfortable about, but he was too busy getting hard under the table, thinking about the previous night's prolonged eye contact). As soon as they were done, Derek spread an aged vellum map in front of Stiles and went to wash the dishes. “What can you tell me about that map?”

“Well, it's old as shit... the legend is in runes, so, yes, studying this afternoon... there are all these red lines... I assume it's local? ...so these blue dots must be the standing stones—almost every red line on the map passes through the circle, but through different points... eight nexus points and there are... sixteen stones total... What are all these green splotches?”

“Caves,” Derek murmured over his shoulder. “I'll show you which one we're staying in when I'm done washing up.”

Stiles went back to staring at the map, muttering to himself and tracing various elements with fingertips hovering scant millimeters above the ink (he'd been to rare book libraries, okay, he wasn't totally useless). “It's this one,” he said without looking up when Derek rejoined him at the table. “It's close, but not right on top of it, and it has this hourglass chamber the kitchen is half of, and that round cave the horses are in.”

“How d- yes, you're- yes. Goddess. Do you want me to explain about it, or would you rather just work it out yourself?”

“You can explain,” Stiles replied magnanimously. “I like your voice pretty good.”

“Very generous,” Derek muttered, leaning closer. “The blue squiggly lines are water—you probably figured that out—and the dotted lines show underground water. The black lines show mountains and ravines. These red lines are magical, almost like the earth's veins. Power travels along them.”

“So half of these rocks are on top of extra-magical spots in this magical spot.” A nod. “Why only half of them? Don't the other half get butthurt they weren't picked?”

“Uh... I do not know “butthurt,” but the reason for half is that power travels along them, but the strength rises and falls with the wheel of the year and the phase of the moon. Different ones strengthen and weaken at different times, and so each of these eight stones is most powerful at one of the high holidays.”

“Still. Why the extra stones?”

“I think you will see better when you see for yourself.”

“Does Deaton give you lessons in being vague but sounding helpful? Or have you just figured out that this half-the-story bullshit is the fastest way to manipulate me? Okay, no matter how fucking devious that smile is, increasingly complex facial expressions are no way to hold up half a conversation.

Because Derek was an absolute ass, he said nothing as he rolled up the map and slid it into a leather case, but he did offer a series of ridiculous faces that left Stiles choking with laughter. When they got to the small stable, Stiles grabbed Derek by the ears and pushed him into the wall and kissed him, hard and dirty—all with his eyes screwed shut in defense—just to get Derek to stop long enough to actually get on the horses.

Stiles kept kissing him, hands everywhere but never for long enough, until it was Derek fighting for breath and unable to control his abdominal spasms, pulled back and smirked down at him. “Research time!”

“You're a bad person.”

“Payback's a motherfucker.”

“I did not—in the kitchen—I just _offered_ , I didn't pin you to the—and-”

“Now you know what offering does to me.” Stiles did his best demure impression as he led his horse out of the stall.

**)O(**  


About forty-five minutes later (there had been a small scuffle in the stable, after all, which had ended in Derek dropping to his knees and extracting Stiles' orgasm in record time and the very placid horses not kicking anyone in the head, thank goodness) they crested the top of a hill. Below them spread a valley bare of trees but one, an ancient ash tall and gnarled, a commanding presence at the center of the valley. Its branches glinted with the green promise of spring; the end of its long shadow brushed the base of the western standing stones.

Derek handed the map to Stiles. “Go explore. You should do it on your own, the first time. Listen to what it tells you.”

Stiles stared at him, mouth a small O, stared at the valley, stared at Derek. He slid gracelessly off the horse's back and gave the reins to Derek. He whirled to go but stopped himself—grabbed Derek's hand again and pressed a kiss to the hairy knuckles, gazing up with an expression Derek couldn't read, ran off.

Where the hill broke off steeply, Stiles flung himself to the ground, arms and legs stretched long, and rolled down the long slope.


	7. In Which We Meet Cloudberry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' tattoos shamelessly stolen (in part) from otter's amazing _Incantation Ink_ , DevilDoll's squee-inducing _Beltane_ , and one more where Stiles, Scott, and Allison own a magic shop in San Francisco and Stiles has those awesome blood-chalkboard-forearm tattoos? I will give that story all the props as soon as I find it again!

Stiles whirled down the hill in a haze of green flashing in his eyes and blood pounding in his ears. He hit the flat bottom of the valley and looked up into a new world. A quiet world. A steep bank rose behind him, and the bright green grass on the other side of the ring faded into trees climbing a gentle slope. Birds flew about above him, but did not sing.

He sat slowly—a little dizzy still—and looked around. The valley was huge, maybe a mile long? He'd never been great with spacial awareness. He stood and walked to the nearest stone, which seemed to be pulsing his name, a great magnetic pull, and examined it. He could tell it had been intricately carved, once, but now the designs were faded and nearly indistinguishable from the mottled granite. He stood there for a long time, one hand resting on the sun-warmed side of it, feeling calmer and stronger with each breath. This was a good rock. A bro.

He kept walking. The next rock seemed to lack that pulse, but the carvings were clear. Complex knots melded into clever animal faces and overarching trees. He stood there, examining the designs, waiting for his spidey-sense to tingle, but nothing happened. He pulled out the map. Duh. Every _other_ stone was a nexus of... whatever those red lines were called. Veins? Yeah, Derek had called them veins. There was no compass rose on the map, so he took a moment to orient himself before following one of the lines northish. He veered to the left and then the right experimentally, testing if he could tell where they were just by feel. He could.

“Oh my god.” He startled himself with the noise and kept walking, eyes closing now as he felt his way through the meadow.

He didn't know how long it had been when he arrived at the center of the circle, having traced each line with both his eyes and his... shit, he was gonna keep calling them spidey-senses. Every time his path crossed a stone, he stood still for a long moment, looking and listening, learning the feel of the different points on the circle. But now he was standing at the base of this enormous tree, feet nestled between two huge roots and leaning his full weight against the rough bark. His arms came up to circle what he could—perhaps as much as a third of it, tall and lanky as he was, but quite possibly less. He didn't know why he was doing this. It seemed the thing to do.

He felt a... connectedness that he had never felt before, not even when he'd sneak out to the state park and do mushrooms as a teenager. An assurance that things were okay, that he was capable of what was asked of him, that his dad was okay. The tree plucked at something deep in him, a guitar string he hadn't known was running through the center of him, and he felt relief twang through his bones. The tree replied to his doubts and insecurities, not in words or even in pictures, but in truths he suddenly knew to his core. 

Eventually, he got up and climbed the hill to Derek and the horses, the former drowsing in the sun and the latter contentedly grazing. A feeling of softness flowed over him and he settled down next to his lover, nosing at the corner of his jaw. Derek murmured happily and Stiles let his teeth scrape against the exposed neck.

Derek moaned and opened his eyes, blinking against the intrusive light. “Stiles-”

“I learned a lot down there. And-” He paused to suck a large hickey right over Derek's jugular. “I remembered about our first assigned bonding experiment.” He went back to the hickey.

Derek opened his mouth to talk, but didn't quite manage words, just a vague questioning noise.

“You...” Kisses trailed down his jaw to his chin. “Have to look me over and tell me about all the tattoos I can't see so I can tell if they've changed or not.” Kisses, a million tiny kisses between his chin and his mouth, Stiles' hot breath pulsing across his lips. “So let's go back to the cave and get naked!”

Derek involuntarily chased Stiles' disappearing lips before crashing to the ground with a growl of frustration.

“You don't like that idea? You don't want to get naked with me?” Stiles pulled a hurt look.

“That's... you... ughh... kiss me, you damn tease.”

“Stand up and I'll kiss you.”

He did, and he didn't brace himself in time, but he did literally have superhuman strength on his side, so they didn't fall over when Stiles sprang into his arms, wrapping legs around his waist and pulling him by the ears for a bruising kiss. After a few minutes of those kisses, though—not to mention the hoarse moans and frantic grinding on Stiles' part—he sank to his knees and set his weight firmly so Stiles could work himself into a frenzy on Derek's cock. “There's no reason I can't tell you about your tattoos here, you know. Save on candles at least.”

“Fuck—Derek—I-” Stiles scooted back a bit on Derek's thighs and shook his head like a wet dog, taking a few deep breaths to clear it. “I wanted to take notes, write down the runes so I can look them up later, maybe have you draw some of the ones I can't see?”

“I brought a notebook and a quill and ink.”

“You devious fucker.”

Derek seemed to think the best way to show Stiles about his tattoos was to trace each one with his tongue. Even the ones Stiles could clearly see, like the runes around his wrists. It might have gone faster with a less... interested... assistant, but it wasn't like Stiles was complaining.

“Uh... Stiles?” Derek looked up from the wrist he was examining. “Your tattoos are moving.”

Stiles tried to care more about the freaky supernatural shit going just under the surface of his own skin than the sudden lack of Derek's lips on him, he really did. “What the fuck,” he muttered, bringing his arms in front of his face. The runes on his right hand were as perfectly normal as surprise magic tattoos ever got, but the ones on the left were slowly spinning around his wrist. “That's... kind of brilliant, actually. I can read all of them even though some of them go under the dragons! That's so great!” Stiles drew the abandoned notebook and writing kit towards him, copying down the glyphs on his arm eagerly—but slowly, as he wanted to get each unfamiliar character down just so. “Now the other one! This is so cool! Aw man, I wish I brought the rune book with me.”

Derek rolled his eyes, like _I wasn't done kissing you_ but given that his next assignment was literally to kiss Stiles, he got over it pretty quickly.

Stiles—while still totally down to touch and be touched by Derek pretty much whenever, wherever—was also motivated to discover if his other tattoos moved or, or lit up maybe? Shit, he didn't know. The bands of runes on his ankles moved too, even if they were right next to his ticklish feet and Derek was a complete and utter bastard. After Derek copied down the slowly circling runes of his neck, he stared at the parchment for a long moment, wondering what the strange writing meant. It was a little disconcerting, having symbols etched into your skin when you had no idea whatsoever what they might mean.

“So are there any other tattoos that look like they're in sets? I wanna be sorta methodical about this. I thought you could start with my head—my _head_ , I can't fucking believe it—and work down my front to my feet, then turn around to do my back? Once we get to about my knees, I'm gonna need you to draw them for me. The tongue thing is great and I really want to encourage this behavior, but I can't say that it helps me visualize them. Or think.”

Derek smirked, grabbing the notebook from Stiles, and drew a triple moon, waxing-full-waning. “That,” he smiled, tracing the lines on Stiles' forehead with his index finger, “is here. It is a symbol of the goddess.” He combed his fingers softly through Stiles' hair and kissed his face and neck. “Here,” he nosed the outer curve of Stiles' ear, “you are dark blue.” He sketched an ear, barely looking at the paper, and clumsily shaded. “I don't see any others here.” He kissed down to Stiles' tunic, tugged the loose garment up and off.

His mouth blazed a trail down Stiles' sternum. “There's a dove... a hawk... a crow...” he whispered into each tattoo in turn.

Stiles craned his neck down to see. “Move it, you're blocking them? Are they fighting?” The hawk had its wings outstretched to land between the dove and the crow, but the two of them continued to calmly perch on Stiles' heaving ribs. “Okay, more kisses. This one could be a mover, too, we never know.”

Derek did his diligent best, but the tattoos stayed put. His hands roamed the length of Stiles' arms, broad shoulders to long fingers to shoulders again. “The birds are still. But look at your arms.” On Stiles' left side, the thick black geometric bands that circled him from bicep to shoulder had begun to shift; they reminded him of nothing so much as the “how sedimentary rocks are formed” animations from middle-school science videos. On his right, the swirling blue-black ink was... actually swirling, like a mist rising up or a storm cloud roiling. Stiles rolled to the notebook and jotted down a few observations before gleefully climbing into Derek's lap.

“Belly time!”

“You,” Derek murmured between kisses. “Are. Ridiculous. And there's nothing on your belly, which you must know.”

“Maybe they're touch-activated invisible ink tattoos.”

Derek cocked one eyebrow. “They would have been activated before now.”

“But we were always inside then! Maybe they need sunshine _and_ touch. Who knows? Magic is crazy.” 

Derek rolled his eyes like he knew he was getting played but pushed Stiles back into the grass and settled between his legs anyway. “I thought you wanted to be methodical? I haven't even finished your arms.”

“Less talking, more licking. And biting. We have to try everything. For science.”

Derek's mouth was too full of flesh to respond. He had never heard of invisible ink before, but he really didn't know too much about the higher Druidic secrets. Like Stiles said, who knows? He stopped thinking about tattoos—or anything, really—quickly and lost himself in worshiping Stiles' abdomen. Thoroughly. 

He was just moving on from abdomen worship to the worship of slightly lower regions, nuzzling Stiles' borrowed kilt down as he fumbled with the belt, when he saw it. He stopped. Nestled in the crook of Stiles' hip, mostly hidden by the exuberant bush, was another tattoo. “You have one—here.”

“Der—are you okay?”

“It's... it's the same as my necklace. The same as my tattoo.”

Stiles' plump lips hung in a limp O for just a second, but still. Notable. “Oh my god, that one's still there?! That's, like, the first one I ever did on myself.” Stiles struggled to a sit and peered at the ink in question. “Yeah, that's... that's definitely the same one.” He reached out to touch it, to feel the uneven scar under the ink left from his first fumbling attempts at fill, but Derek beat him to it. With his face.

Derek rubbed his whole head, nose-first, into Stiles' hip, snuffling the skin and, just because of the facts of the day, what had to be a fair amount of ball-sweat. He did not appear to mind, though, and it felt great, so...

“This is doing things for you? Wolfy things, I'm guessing, just from the general level of,” Stiles gesticulated vaguely. Grandly. “Y'know, sniffing.”

“Yes,” Derek growled. “You're—you—goddess—you're _marked_. As _pack_.” He broke off in a harsh moan before burying his teeth in Stiles, half the tattoo and a good fraction of thigh clamped in his jaws.

The kilt fell off completely in Stiles' ensuing thrashing and moaning. When he came to and gazed down Derek-wards, he squealed. Just a tiny bit. “They're moving too. And they are so fucking cute!”

Derek's face was still buried between Stiles' hip and cock, eyes closed as he lavished everything he could reach, but he looked up with a minimum of resentment. Then back down, following Stiles' gaze.

“That is some Precious Moments _Fox and the Hound_ shit right there,” Stiles commented gleefully. Across the span of Stiles' spread thighs, a small red fox and a black wolf sniffed delicately at each other, before the fox walked up Stiles' leg, across his pelvis, and down to the wolf. It stretched up to lick the wolf's face before curling up on its huge tail, looking smug. Stiles lost it then, unable to talk, hands flailing in delight as he watched the fucking adorableness unfold. The wolf gazed down with what could be fondness or exasperation, finally settling—somewhat awkwardly, tail still pinned—around the orange fluffball. “That is just too much. Fucking doggie naps.” He reached down to tangle his fingers in Derek's hair and Derek looked up.

“I got a little... carried away. With the tattoo.” He traced the rim of the large purple hickey.

“Don't sweat it, dude, that was awesome.”

“The dragon... its tongue is out. Like a snake.”

Stiles collapsed backward, like everything was just too much, which—yeah, okay. “I wonder if they're all... part of me or if it's, like, otherworldy beings inhabiting my skin.”

“Did you know there are eyes on your palms?”

“No. No, I did not. Really seems like something I would have noticed. At least they're not moving. I do not need to be watched by my own hand. Jesus.”

“Can you see the ones on your legs? The plants?”

“Yeah, I think so... pass me the notebook?” Stiles began to take notes, names of what he could identify and drawings of what he couldn't, while Derek lapped at a vibrant patch of nettles on the back of one knee. The plants wrapped around his shins and calves, but petered out around his lower thighs, the back of which were covered in gnarled roots leading up to the enormous ash climbing his spine.

“This one... a tree... really intricate. I can trace it for you, or do a sketch maybe, but there's no way I can draw it for you like it really is.”

“What kind of tree?”

“An ash. It looks old, like the one down below. Over here, it is winter. A few shriveled leaves, samaras on the ground around it. Here there are small buds, and here spring leaves... a squirrel in the high boughs... thick summer foliage... and here dropping leaves, fat seeds on the branches. I can see little faces of other animals, too, but I think they're hiding. Wager they move too, when they feel like it. There's a long scar here-” Derek traced from the crown of the tree to the nape of Stiles' neck. “-but no more tattoos that I can see.”

“I can't help but notice that most of my tattoos got all kinds of licking and biting and whatnot to see if they move, but this tree hasn't gotten hardly any testing at all...”

Derek spent a lazy half hour chewing and petting Stiles' back before drifting down to the mass of roots etched into his ass, sucking bruise after bruise onto it while he reached between Stiles' legs to grab his thickened dick and pull it backwards.

He grabbed Stiles by the hips and yanked him onto his knees (face still pillowed sleepily in the grass) before nuzzling his way down Stiles' ass crack to his cock. Which he immediately swallowed.

“Hhhhh—FUCK!” Stiles yelled, looking under his torso to see Derek humming happily around the base of his dick, face tilted to cram as tightly as possible against his ass. The way Derek had pulled his cock back crammed his balls against his ass a little awkwardly, but it was entirely worth it. “Yeah, okay, Jesus shit yes.” Stiles started to squirm and thrash then, legs unable to hold even half of his weight, but Derek kept him in place with the fingers clenched around his hipbones and the sheer force of the suction on Stiles' shaft. Stiles came quickly under the assault, collapsing even further into Derek's grasp as the aftershocks rolled over him.”Holy god... need... a second,” he managed, flopping forward as Derek mournfully let go his cock.

“Can I...” Derek shed his own kilt and lay over Stiles, pressing his insistently throbbing erection against Stiles' spit-slick ass.

“Fuck yesss,” Stiles moaned, head drooping forward as he humped his ass weakly up against Derek.

Derek braced his weight on his forearms, bit down on the back of Stiles' neck, and rolled his hips furiously until he came with a hoarse, buried cry. When he caught his breath, he flopped onto his back, pulling Stiles with him. “I can't believe,” he whispered into Stiles' neck. “...that you didn't tell me...” He trailed light fingertips up Stiles' leg to his hip, making him shudder and curse. “...we have the same tattoo!” He suddenly dug his fingers into the tattoo in question, rubbing the pressure point buried there.

“Fuck!” Stiles yelped. “Oh my god, is there anything you do that's not the sexiest thing ever? You are going to kill me.”

“I'm just encouraging you to keep clean.”

Stiles rolled his eyes at that, not bothering to dignify it with a verbal response. But after he lay in the sun for a few minutes and felt the come drying on his ass, crackling and pulling at the skin, he thought maybe getting somewhere to bathe wouldn't be so bad. “What's the fastest way to get to a stream or pond or something? I don't want to get the map out; my hands are filthy.”

“Come on.”

As they mounted the horses, Stiles asked, “What are their names? Jeez, I can't believe I never asked before now.”

“You had a lot going on. You're riding Abbot. And this,” Derek blushed, “is Cloudberry.”

“You named your horse Cloudberry.”

Derek nudged Cloudberry with his knees and broke into a canter.

Stiles called him an asshole as he gave chase, but he was laughing.

Derek was just explaining how much further to the swimming hole—a sharp crack rent the air and Derek lept from his horse, shouting, “Stiles, get down!” over his shoulder.

Stiles did get down, crouching behind a bush and watching in awe as Derek raced over the ridge, faster and more agile on the rocky terrain than their thick-limbed horses. Stiles heard another gunshot, and then a wet yell, and then a gore-spattered Derek was back, one bloody hand holding out a rifle and heavy leather bag, one arm limp at his side.

“Take these. If I'm not here, you—you need to be able to defend yourself.”

“Derek—what the—you didn't have to-”

“He was an English spy. He threatened us. He threatened _you_. You're pack. I don't know how to explain that in human words.”

“He hurt you.”

“I'll heal. Regular bullets never do more damage than I can mend, and only hunters have wolfsbane.”

“What about your shoulder?”

Derek frowned at his left arm like it offended him. “I can't really move it, and it hurts, but it's not healing.”

“I think it's dislocated. Let me look. Did you fall on it?”

Derek glared, clearly not wanting to admit his wolfy agility had abandoned him in a time of need.

“Dislocations aren't necessarily injuries by themselves, but they can injure easily getting back in. You'd probably heal but,” he shrugged, “it'd hurt like a motherfucker. All kinds of nerves and veins and shit in there.” As he spoke, a quiet murmur, he gripped Derek's bicep in one big hand and his shoulder in the other, carefully guiding them together. Derek felt an uncomfortable pop when they fit in, but not pain, really. He'd sucked pain from a lot of wounded men after battles, or between battles, or behind a thrown together barrier during battles, given them time to regroup and fight on, but no human had ever gone out of their way to save him pain. They thought he'd heal. Which he always did. He gazed down at Stiles' hands, still gripping him firmly, all long fingers and bony knuckles. Moles spattered the web between his left thumb and fingers.

“Stiles.”

“Mm?”

“How do you feel about fisting?”

“I feel that you need like, six baths before we can even talk about fisting and also my hands are very agile.


	8. In Which Training Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for totally chill use of the word faggot in Stiles' inner monologue.

Stiles was covered in bite marks and beard burn by the time he and Derek set off for Deaton's a bit more than a week later, in time for the new moon. He liked to be in charge, most of the time, and he _loved_ hurting big burly dudes, but he liked it best when he got hurt in return, which made dealing with the whole “riding for hours with ass rash” thing a lot easier to deal with. It wasn't pleasant, exactly, but the reminder of why he was hurting did put a smile on his face.

“How often did Deaton say our bonding sessions needed to be?”

“He didn't. It's spring now, though, and summer soon. It's a busy time for fighting. I don't know how often I'll be able to get away from the campaign. Perhaps fortnightly?”

“Better if it was nightly,” Stiles huffed.

Derek turned to him, soft-eyed. “There's also the holidays... I don't usually go, but I could start going more. We never attack during a holy celebration. You might be too busy working with Deaton at them to get away for long, but at least we can see each other.”

“You'd go to church for me? Damn!”

“I—I like you.”

“You said he wanted us to hook up, right? What if we pretended that we hadn't already... or that we didn't even like each other! Then he would make us hang out more!” Stiles clapped a hand to one particularly vicious bruise, high up on his neck. “No, that's not gonna work... could pretend it was hate sex? No, can't pretend to hate you. Guess I'm just gonna have to suck it up and deal with not seeing you all the time.”

“Maybe you will be too busy to miss me.”

“You have no idea how distractable I am. It's not possible.”

**)O(**  


Deaton kept him busy, too busy to pine (though not too busy to miss). Still, an accomplishment. He'd been at Deaton's for three days, Derek-less for two of them, and hadn't lost his mind yet. Instead, he was traipsing around in a fine drizzle, pointing out plants and reeling off everything he could remember or guess about them.

“After I went to see the standing stones, Derek told me something I haven't been able to stop thinking about.”

“Mm?”

“He said, 'There is no way to mistrust a tree; they have no way to lie to us.' I... just... I've never felt anything like what I felt next to that tree before. Until that moment, I never considered that I could—communicate, with them, or understand anything they have to say. I never even thought they might have something to say.”

“It takes more time, and in most places more focus, than talking with humans, but all trees have something to tell you. They are old, great repositories of wisdom, but one must be patient to receive it. And if you do, it is a great gift.”

“And ash trees? I know one of my tattoos is an ash, and Der said it looks just like the one in the valley.”

Deaton gave him a measuring look. “The ash is a source of great power. Of protection and healing. They are old, and strong, and have much to teach us about the cycle of life—the flying samara, the smooth sapling, the rough-barked elder... black buds and purple flowers and green leaves. There are those who say it is an ash that connects the different worlds, the afterlife and the world of humans and that of the gods.”

“Isn't that a Norse belief?”

“How much do you know of the history of Scotland?”

“A bit.” And by “a bit,” he meant, “minored in Celtic history,” but really, he wanted to know what Deaton had to say.

“Then maybe you know that, despite our isolation, many peoples and cultures have come here over the years. Some take root, and some we pull like weeds. Perhaps you can also tell that I am not precisely native to these lands.” He arched an eyebrow and gestured at his own brown skin. “The Scots are fiercely protective of their lands and their ways, but not entirely closed to new ideas, especially if those ideas mesh well with our own. And further reasons to revere a tree we already see as holy... well, those certainly mesh well.”

“Fair enough.”

“Before you came here, had you a connection to them? Ash trees, trees in general?”

“Kinda? Not really. I mean, I grew up in Sacramento—all buildings and people. I loved to be out in the woods, I always found it comforting, like I didn't have ADHD out there, but it took a lot of travel to get there, and my dad was usually too busy to take me. We'd go hiking when he had a day, always took a camping trip in the summer, but it wasn't frequent. Wasn't as much as I wanted. I tried to join the Boy Scouts when I was a kid, but _apparently_ baby Stiles was a huge flamer and they wouldn't let me in.” Honestly, from what he remembered of his childhood, baby Stiles was the most limp-wristed faggot around. No surprises there. “Everything I read—which was a lot—took place in forests, away from technology and the modern world. Or, the future world, I guess, now that I'm here?”

“Hn.”

“You know, I'd say that's your favorite word, but grunting is not actually a word.”

Deaton fixed him with a withering stare but didn't respond directly. “Tonight is the first night we can see the moon. It will only be the tiniest sliver, not enough to see by. You will stay outside, meditating and praying, growing your connection to the trees. I know there is one, has been one, and it only needs encouragement to flourish. I think we will need to establish that before working on your connections to the smaller plants. Trees are a bit easier to sense.”

**)O(**  


Stiles gradually relaxed into a routine over the next several weeks. They woke at dawn and walked (or rode, depending on the distance of the destination) out into the woods, where Stiles proved his quickly-growing knowledge to Deaton. On a good morning, he found and identified enough edibles to fill his belly; on a bad one, he was hungry and cranky until they returned to the house in midafternoon.

Though the bulk of his attention was always on food at that time of day, Deaton was diligent in pointing out other plants—those used for medicine and those important for ritual—showing him how to harvest them, each at the proper time for utmost potency.

When they returned, Deaton would set him tasks from different books, all written in the same runic language of his tattoos—some were set with illustrations, obviously herbals or field guides to the local fauna, some covered top to bottom in tiny, hard to read characters that Stiles still couldn't quite parse on his own. Sometimes Deaton would stick around to test him or to offer further instruction, but generally disappeared until dinner, working away at his own secrets. Over their evening meal, they'd practice the pronunciation of the strange runic words, Deaton quietly surprised at the pace of progress and Stiles laughing uproariously at his own mistakes.

Occasionally, he was instructed to stay out at night, meditating and communing under the moon. He was just returning from such a night, the moon a fat gibbous on the western horizon, not particularly looking forward to a plant walk in the thick spring mist after his sleepless night, when he saw the note on the door. In runes, of course. He squinted his eyes in the dim light, lips moving as he sounded out the strange words.

> _Stiles—_  
>  I have been called away for a day or two. You may rest a bit, but do keep up with your plant walks and studies. I will know if you've been shirking your duties. I've left a notebook on the kitchen table for you to record the progress you make in my absence.  
> I am expecting a visitor this afternoon; do be a good host and make him feel at home.  
> —Deaton 

Sweet. Naptime.

**)O(**  


He awoke a few hours later, a little dazed from his inner clock's reset and with the distinct impression of eyes boring into him. He scrubbed roughly at his cheeks and across his eyes with the heel of his hand, blinking and yawning as he tried to get it together and sit up. When he finally got coordinated enough to really open his eyes-

“Fuck!” he swore under his breath, launching off the bed to tackle Derek, who was sitting on the floor, lounging against the wall, all casual, totally lacking in chalance, as if there was nothing at all unusual or surprising about his being there. “You—how—goddamn—Deaton is such an ass, he could've told me, I would've been _awake_ —how long have you been here?”

A small, sardonic smile. “Long enough to know you've been shirking your duties. 'Bout time for that plant walk, huh?”

“Noooo. No, no, no. Plants walks are just so I can find my own breakfast and be self-sufficient and things, and I can totally find my own breakfast. Right. Here.” Just in case he was being too subtle, he licked his lips and ground down into Derek's lap before shoving his tongue lewdly into one cheek.

“Deaton will 'know if you've been shirking your duties'.” That one-eyebrow-raise should be fucking outlawed; he could not control himself around that, he really couldn't.

“So, blowies first, plant walk second? Y'know, usually we go out first thing in the morning... it's pretty late in the day now, so I need something to get my strength up before we go traipsing around the woods. Some protein, I think, to balance out all that fiber and vitamins and stuff in the plants.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “You are impossible. Fine.”

It was Stiles' turn to roll his eyes. “Fine, you'll allow me to suck your brains out through your dick? How magnanimous of you.”

“Always with the sweet talk.”

“Oh, you... just for that...” And Stiles stopped talking then, lay himself out on the floor in front of Derek, ducked his head under that kilt and set to with a motherfucking will, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing up and down fast and hard and relentless, pressing his nose into Derek's impressive bush and moaning—loudly, if somewhat muffled—when he felt the thick shaft twitch on his tongue.

“Stiles, oh g-goddess, not gonna last long. _Stiles!_ ” Derek whimpered his lover's name as he came so quickly he surprised even himself, and yeah, Stiles could get used to this.

He didn't let up, though, just swallowed every salty drop and kept up the pressure. He was pretty familiar with the physics of it all, and this amount of suction simply wouldn't allow Derek to get soft again. He slowed his pace a bit, used his tongue a little more, but kept Derek buried in his mouth, sucked so hard his cheeks hurt, even as Derek mewled and tugged weakly at his hair. They'd talked about this and Derek had a safeword if he needed it but he clearly did not, not if his wordless moans and aborted thrusts were anything to go by.

It took longer, the second time around, and there wasn't quite as much spunk to swallow but Stiles did not give a good goddamn about that. How could he mind anything when he shoved the kilt off his head and looked up to see Derek melted into the wall, looking utterly wrecked and way past the point of words. Long vowels spilled from Derek's mouth as he came, shuddering, and Stiles finally relented, softly licking him clean and helping him lay down on the floor, gently, so he didn't brain himself falling over.

“Best. Breakfast. Ever.” Stiles sounded awfully smug, so pleased with himself he didn't even mind ignoring the dripping cock in his pants, looking down at his handiwork with a shit-eating grin playing across his lips.

“Mmph,” Derek agreed.

“You hungry too, baby? I could fix that. Don't want you getting all light-headed when we go for our walk.”

“Already... light-head.” Derek was clearly exerting himself just to squeeze out those few syllables.

“Oh no! It's more dire than I had thought!” Stiles scooted around to Derek's head, shoving his own clothes clumsily down as he went, before settling Derek's head into his lap.

Derek was too fucked out to really do much just then, but he certainly tried, nosing at Stiles' cock and balls and licking softly at anything that happened to be in front of him without even a hint of his werewolf strength or dexterity. Stiles could wait, though, happy to lean back against the wall until Derek recovered enough to suck him down to the root, fingers digging into his hips like Stiles was a life preserver in a choppy sea.

**)O(**  


Deaton got back three days later, looking disappointed in Stiles' work ethic before he even got in the door. “You shirked.”

“Bonding time is very important for an alpha and their emissary!” Stiles squawked, trying really hard to look responsible and not like he'd been halfway to getting fucked when they'd heard Deaton stabling his horse.

“Hn. Did you write in the journal, at least?”

Stiles began to blush. “I mean, yes, but, uh, the progress I recorded was most, um, bonding progress—we did go on plant walks! And I read to Derek from that history of Scotland!”

Deaton just ignored Stiles in favor of giving Derek a Look, like _I expected better of you, Alpha._

Derek shrugged. It wasn't _his_ lessons that got left undone, and besides, Stiles was very persuasive.

**)O(**  


Spring passed quickly into summer, lengthening days of plants and books and testing and Deaton's own special brand of conversation, sporadically interrupted by Derek showing up unexpectedly—only once half-healed from a wolfsbane arrow and covered in enough blood to give Stiles a minor heart attack—or Deaton nudging Stiles out the door (it didn't take much), telling him to go to the standing stones and be back for the next moon.

They argued about the journal about once a week, which was as often at Deaton asked to look at it. After that first time, Stiles had tried to stay on topic when he wrote, he did, really, but he'd get distracted and his internal monologue would take over, commandeering a direct path from his brain to his hands and the next thing he knew there were pages and pages of smut. (Okay, there were also some sickeningly domestic fantasies, but he wasn't thinking about that.)

Nobody but Stiles was surprised by how quickly he went through his lessons, soaking up the information like he'd always known and just had to be reminded. By midsummer, he could identify and read three different runic alphabets, spoke Gaelic nigh fluently with his California-soft vowels and smattering of English—curses and anachronistic slang—proving that in any language, Stiles was still _Stiles._

“Derek told you some of his family's history, correct?”

“A little bit. I think he only meant to tell me that he's a werewolf but... he got a little emotional and kept going. He told me about his dad, the fire, his sister... and his mission for revenge. I got the impression there was a little more behind the whole revenge thing—he said something about cleaning away the English scourge—but I didn't want to, you know, press him.”

“Commendable. Saxons have lived on these islands for a long time. They and the Celts have not always gotten along, exactly, but the situation has been deteriorating for quite a while. The total destruction of Derek's village was a turning point not only for him, but all Scotland—the people cannot, will not, abide that level of violence and torture.

“They are insistent. We are insistent. If the English will not respect Scottish ways, Scottish language, Scottish families... they will not be here. Did you know they are even trying to outlaw the kilt? We will throw them out, and they will be gone for good.” Stiles had never imagined Deaton could speak for so long, or with such fervor. “You are here... because this is a turning point. Derek was not intended to be alpha, never groomed for it like his sister was-”

“Are they matriarchal? Or matrilineal?”

“Well, not exactly, but more so than typical Scots or English culture. We'll discuss that later. The point is, neither you or Derek _should_ be in the positions of power that you are-”

“I shouldn't be here at all.”

Deaton's glare told him to sit down and shut up in no uncertain terms. “-which is a clear auspice that this time is one like no other. The world itself feels changed; there is power humming through it.”

“I can feel the power, now, when I'm out on walks. Even underground, I can feel something but it's a little more faint.”

“It takes rocks a bit longer to wake up. They'll get there. Some emissaries do not have magic at all... it isn't strictly necessary for the post... but I have never seen an emissary with such magic as yours. They will _all_ wake up, in time. There have always been strands of it, running through the earth, but I've never felt it so strongly before.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So chapter nine (next week) is the one I'm taking scene prompts for. And I am a service-oriented pornographer!
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH for all the kudos and comments y'all've been leaving. It makes me a million kinds of happy.


	9. In Which There is Zero Plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles puts werewolf healing to the test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger/squick warnings/avoidance tactics: If you don't like blood, skip to “Saturday Afternoon.” If you don't like kitchen sex/spanking/butter as lube, skip from “Saturday Afternoon” to “Sunday Morning.” If you don't like rough/domineering sex, skip from “Sunday morning” on. (The rough sex scene also lacks lube, which is usually a big turnoff for me, but I got a request for it, sooo I tried to find a middle ground there.)
> 
> Prompts:  
>  _If you're taking porny scene prompts I would love to see Stiles spanking Derek (who is bent over a table) and then rimming and fingering him till Derek is desperate and moaning loudly and after he comes, Stiles just using his fucked out body for his own pleasure.. With Derek just there taking it, mewling and whimpering, tightening around Stiles dick.. :D_
> 
> and
> 
> _oh my god, Derek just taking control of Stiles and making him his. You know, the brutal kind of fuck where derek is claiming him, forcing himself in stiles. Facefucking, using stiles spit on his dick as the only lube and just going at it_
> 
> P.S. A million apologies for being so late on this! I got a last minute prompt, which is beyond wonderful and would usually be fine, but it coincided with me starting new job and my morning writing time no longer existing, so I'm still working on making a new time for that. Chapter Ten was done months ago, though, just needs edited and will be up on time!

Friday Afternoon

“I'm so glad Deaton taught me to use the scrying pool over the summer,” Stiles mused, surveying his work. “It would have eaten into so much of our bonding time to negotiate this face to face. I can't really think of a better use for my sick magical powers.”

“Nnnngh,” Derek agreed. He wasn't gagged—Stiles liked to hear him—but he had a Pavlovian response to the term “bonding time” by now, and he'd already been hard and desperate for a _very_ long time. He knelt on the bed, arms tied together from bicep to wrist and secured between his spread ankles. The difficult position arched his back and thrust his cock forward for Stiles' appreciation. He couldn't get free; the ropes had also benefited from Stiles' total magic immersion and had been woven with unbreakability charms.

“Don't come.” Stiles bent down and licked a wide stripe from the head of Derek's cock to the base, swirled his tongue around the balls and back to the tip, where he sucked lightly for a moment before admonishing, “You're not going to come without permission, are you? You're going to be a good boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stiles hummed in satisfaction and started leisurely sucking Derek off. It was only the first night of their weekend together, and there was no rush. He took his time working the whole thing down his throat, even though he could've just as easily deepthroated the man right off, just because he could. He wanted to spoil Derek. He ran his hands along the taut ridges of muscle straining to keep Derek up; werewolf strength was an amazing thing but long enough in a tricky position like that would tire anyone out. When his soft fingertips made Derek tremble, he tilted his hand and dug his nails in, left red lines in his wake that vanished almost as soon as they'd appeared.

Eventually Stiles came up for air and shifted back on his own haunches, noting happily that Derek's fangs had dropped. “Your ears look so fucking cute this way, you know that?” He reached forward to scritch behind one ear and Derek rumbled happily into the touch. “Aw, puppy.” Still petting, Stiles used the thumb of the other hand to trace Derek's mouth. “I'm glad your fangs are out. I'd hate for you to be the only one who's bleeding here.” Deliberately, he punctured the tip of his thumb before slipping it into Derek's mouth. “Go ahead,” he cooed as Derek hesitantly started to suck.

Stiles reached behind himself for the blade and brought it between their bodies, scraping the spine of the knife down the center of Derek's torso. Derek moaned and let his head hang back between his shoulders, arching further into the cool line of touch.

“Careful. You don't want me to cut you too deep by accident, do you?”

Derek said nothing, but moaned again.

“Hey. Hey now. Look at me. I need you aware enough that I know you can safeword if you need to, okay?”

Derek blinked a few times, brought his head up to look Stiles in the eyes. “I'll be able to do that if I need to, Stiles. But I don't need to. And even if you do cut me too deep, I'll heal.”

“That doesn't mean I don't want you to enjoy yourself. Now hold still!” Stiles flipped the blade in his hand and skated the point down one side of Derek's abdomen, tracing the jut of the hip. It was too sharp and shallow to bleed immediately; the skin was healed before more than a few drops of blood had time to well up. “How far can I push this?”

“Well, when you get to muscle I most likely won't enjoy it any longer. And organs are just messy.” Derek wrinkled his nose. “Stinky too. But that's what the safeword is for.”

“Werewolf healing is _awesome_ ,” Stiles said in a reverent tone as he cut a second, deeper cut parallel to the first before leaning in and licking up the twin trails. “'Yellow' if you're not having fun but you don't want it to stop, got it?”

Derek hissed a brief affirmative before he let his head sag back between his shoulder blades, groaning as Stiles brought the blade over this abdomen again and again. The position stretched the skin, nerves exposed and oversensitive, wounds gaping slightly when Stiles started cutting horizontally.

“I think your healing is starting to get a little sluggish. Think I can break it?”

“Why are your eyes lighting up?”

“Why are _your_ eyes lighting up?”

“What is your blade made of?”

“Obsidian.”

“Enchanted?”

“No. Do you think I would cut you with a magic blade without as-”

“You're not going to break my healing with that.”

“But I could?”

“Potentially.”

“Potentially... sounds promising.” Stiles licked the blood that had been trickling, all this time, along the slopes of Derek's collar bone and down his arm from the sluggishly healing laceration in question. “And now that it's slower-” Stiles took a second to thoroughly clean all of the old blood off Derek's chest, “-I can make pretty things!”

“Pretty things?”

“No reason protective runes can't look nice, puppy.” The knife sliced through the skin covering Derek's sternum, deeper than before, and Derek struggled his head up to see. “Ah, ah, ah. Relax for me, spread your shoulders further. That's right, open your chest for me. That's so good.” Derek's skin felt warm and tingly just from the stretch, the forced distance between skin cells. The whisperlines of fire that went through him as Stiles expertly wielded the knife made him shiver and gasp in appreciation. Stiles cut a path of runes which spiraled up Derek's chest and fanned out under the collar bones like flicking-open wings.

Derek heard Stiles' giggle for only a moment before his world narrowed to the white sparks of pain blazing in the still-bleeding lines on his chest. He wasn't even cognizant of how hard he was straining against his restraints until they didn't break, but did stretch far enough to admit his wrists, and he found himself surging up into Stiles' space.

“S-sorry, sir. But what was that?”

Stiles drew Derek in for a long, sweet kiss that tasted of blood. “Don't be sorry. I'm flattered. It's salt. In California, I used lemons, but this works pretty well too.”

“Works how?”

“Aggravates the tissues. Slows healing. Hurts like a motherfucker, mostly.”

“It definitely works on werewolves then.”

Stiles' grin was wide and gleeful and red-tinged. Derek thought it might have been the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. “Now grab onto your ankles. You'll just have to hold yourself up from now on.”

**)O(**

Saturday Afternoon 

  
When they actually roused from bed—very different than rousing _in_ bed—Saturday and bathed and fed themselves, it was closer to dinner than lunch. Which did not mean that Stiles was happy to wake up (he thought his post morning sex nap could have been several hours longer) or that he was thrilled about the lack of coffee in 18th century Scotland, so he slumped over the table and cursed his body for insisting he catch up on all that sleep he didn't get in med school as Derek washed up.

Or at least, he did until Derek stretched up to replace a dish on the top shelf. Derek wore only his shift; the thin fabric clung to the muscles of his back and illuminated perfectly how fucking delectable his ass was.

“I hope you're not holding anything breakable,” Stiles warned, “because I have changed my mind about what I want for breakfast.”

“It's dinner by now, and you already ate it.” Derek quickly set the breakable earthenware bowl on the shelf.

“Shut the hell up.” Stiles grabbed Derek by the hips and tugged him over to the table, shoved his torso down against the surface and flipped the hem of his shift up. Stiles administered a few quick smacks before sinking to his knees and nuzzling his face against the side of Derek's fuzzy ass. “I don't actually mean that.” He spread Derek's buttcheeks with his thumbs. “You know I love it when you're loud.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And I _love_ your ass.”

“I had no idea.”

What Stiles said was, “You're a god damn liar,” but what Derek heard was a slight muffled sound from behind him and his own high moan as Stiles' flat tongue swiped from his balls to his tailbone. Stiles kept Derek spread with one hand, asshole exposed, as he pulled back with the other. He landed one hard smack, then another and another, before asking, “You don't need any warm up, do you? Good.”

“You didn't even let me answer!” Derek twisted his neck around to protest over the noise of the continued spanking.

“I'm still right. I can see you sticking your ass further out, you know. This isn't even enough for you.”

“...I wouldn't mind if you hit me harder.”

“Greedy little slut.” But Stiles loved his greedy little slut, because (in part) he was a greedy little slut, so he went harder, left less time between strikes. Back when, he'd made Derek count the hits but the spankings were so lengthy it got more tedious than anything else (“Was that 171 or 173?”) and he doesn't bother with keeping track anymore. He stood up to get a better angle and just kept going, mixing punches and open-handed smacks, blow after blow until his own arm ached, until Derek's ass shone red and the kitchen resounded with moans.

Most of those moans were some variation on “Fuck,” or “Stiles,” or “Yes,” but when a particularly loud, “Oh goddess, Stiles, fuck me _fuck me_ FUCK ME,” was heard, accompanied by a truly lewd thrust of the hips... well, Stiles was only human.

He pushed Derek's legs wide apart and settled onto his knees between them.

He didn't use his hands.

He just nuzzled his nose in between Derek's cheeks, spread his ass like a boat cutting through the water. Derek's ass was already a little open from his own desperation, relaxed and hungry, and Stiles' tongue slipped in easily. He traced the sensitive backs of Derek's knees with light fingertips and ate Derek out with more enthusiasm than finesse, sloppy and and dripping wet, until two of his long fingers slipped in with little resistance and he had to pull his tongue back to tease at the rim.

Derek's legs shook with pleasure and the strain of the awkward angle, but Stiles did not relent. He did whisper, “Ssh, it's okay baby boy, I got you,” when Derek's moans took on the high pitch of desperation... but as he yet again spoke directly into Derek's ass, it may not have been as comforting in effect as intention.

Stiles went to add another finger and realized his quandary: the slick was still in the bedroom but Derek's ass was in the kitchen. _But it's a kitchen. There has to be something greasy, right? Right_ , he reasoned. He put enough distance between his mouth and Derek's skin to be understood and said, “Hand me the butter.”

“You—what?”

“The butter.”

“You're not gonna put butter in my-”

“You wanna come?” Stiles illustrated his point with a brush of fingers on prostate and a firm bite to one buttock. Derek slid the butter to the edge of the table.

“We're not going to be able to eat with this anymore.”

“It's okay, there's hardly any left.” Stiles greased his fingers and slid them in easily, used his other hand to roll Derek's balls in a move he still called “King of the Goblins” in his head while he pressed firmly against the perineum.

Derek didn't last long against the internal/external assault on his nerves. He moans got louder and louder and then abruptly quieted as he fucking _keened_ and shot all over the table leg, clenching down hard on Stiles' hand.

Stiles fingerfucked him sweetly through his orgasm, but as soon as Derek's breathing evened out he stood and used a bit more butter to grease his own dick and pushed in. It was too soon for even a werewolf's refractory period, but fuck if Derek's wasn't hot as hell like this, whimpering and blissful and fucked out. He reached forward to grab a handful of Derek's hair, pulled the larger man back to rest on his chest and tugged until they could kiss. Derek responded a little drunkenly, eyes wide and dark; Stiles thought maybe he was trying to talk but all that came out was a high-pitched, “Sir.... yesss...”

Stiles bit a fat, swollen hickey onto Derek's neck before lowering him back onto the table. Derek's body was loose from orgasm and Stiles admired the way Derek just laid himself out and took it, took everything Stiles had to offer even while his ass clenched around Stiles' cock in perfect rhythm to Stiles' thrusts.

Stiles fucked him hard and deep for a few minutes, aiming for Derek's prostate with each thrust and listening happily to the loud moans. He bottomed out and rolled his hips against Derek's ass while swiping the last of the butter from the dish and bringing his hand behind him. “Yeah, we're gonna need to boil that butter dish... Don't come until you're inside me,” he muttered into Derek's neck, nosing behind the man's ear. He started fucking himself open, hips jerking between his own hand and Derek's ass as he got closer and closer to orgasm.

Stiles came quickly, tension built up from teasing Derek for so long, pulled out without releasing his grip on Derek's hips. He wasn't strong enough to manhandle Derek, not really, but Derek was plenty willing and folded neatly to the floor at Stiles' touch.

Stiles straddled Derek's hips and lowered himself until his ass rested feather-light against the head of Derek's dripping cock. “I lied.”

“Wha-what?” Derek's head popped up, eyebrows tight with confusion.

“I lied. I said you couldn't come until you were inside me, but... you can't come until I do.”

“Goddess...” Derek groaned as the back of his head slapped gracelessly against the hard floor. “This is going to take forever!”

“If you're lucky.”

**)O(**

Sunday Morning  


Stiles woke up to Derek staring at him, looking pensive.

“My ass is sore.”

“What? Dude, I broke your werewolf healing! That's kinda awesome. I mean, you're okay, right?”

“I think it will heal as soon as the buttplug comes out.”

“Oh yeah? Well, let's not do that then. But I do have a different idea.”

“Hm?”

Stiles pulled Derek on top of him and threw his arms over his head. “Fuck me.” It didn't sound like a request. “I've been taking care of you all weekend, and I love that. I wore out your werewolf healing and now it's time to test out your werewolf strength.” He wrapped his legs around Derek's thighs and slammed their bodies together. “Fuck me, Derek.”

Derek held perfectly still for a few seconds before he growled, flipping Stiles over onto his belly.

Stiles barely had time to process Derek's hands on him before he was face down on the bed. He started to wiggle his ass up only to be again overpowered by Derek—his wrists were down by his ankles now, and Derek was pinning all four limbs with one hand while his other spread Stiles' ass.

“You still have my come in you,” Derek moaned appreciatively. “That's sexy. Even... bootylicious?” Stiles had been working to improve Derek's grasp of 21st century slang, to often hilarious result.

Stiles felt his ass twitch as Derek's words puffed across it and groaned. Loudly.

“You seem a little desperate.”

He knew himself to be beyond words, so he just nodded, whining when he felt the pad of Derek's finger brush over his asshole. The hand pinning him shifted, and claws pricked against his skin.

“You're gonna stay where I put you.”

“Uh-huh, yes, absolutely. Whatever you want as long as I get your cock!” Stiles once more found himself on his back, this time with Derek kneeling above his head. He tilted his head back, opened his mouth in hopes this would go where he wanted it too.

“Harlot,” Derek murmured as he slid his cock into Stiles' mouth.

Stiles groaned appreciatively and swirled his tongue around it. Apparently Derek had gotten up sometime last night to wash, because Derek lasted clean, fresh, and like the precome he always dribbled fucking everywhere when he they had shifted sex. Unfortunately, the no-moving injunction stopped him from grabbing Derek's ass and face fucking himself that way, but surely a little neck stretching would just be considered a good work ethic?

“I said stay still.” Derek pulled back to smack him in the face with his cock. “I know you're gagging for it. Be patient.”

“Can't, want your cock too bad, want you to cho-” Stiles spit out, all in a rush, before Derek was too far lodged in his mouth for speech—clearly not too upset about the disobedience, because he quickly complied with Stiles' request. Stiles wasn't gagging, but he wasn't breathing either; his throat was effectively plugged and Derek's balls sat heavy on his face, blocking his nose. He felt his eyes watering from the lack of oxygen as his throat kicked into overdrive, coating Derek's dick with thick saliva.

Derek murmured above him, deceptively soft noises he could just make out over the rush of blood in his ears. “...look so good, all laid out in front of me, dirty little puzzle, legs spread wide because my cock in your mouth just isn't enough for you even though you're so hard from it...” Stiles always went crazy at Derek's old time dirty talk, he really did, but he couldn't pay attention just then. It was too much; he thrust up even though he knew better, knew to stay still, and then Derek lurched forward, forcing his cock even further down Stiles' throat as his big hands immobilized Stiles' splayed thighs.

Derek tilted his hips up, thumbed his cheeks apart to examine his asshole, and he groaned loudly around the cock thrusting in and out of his mouth. Derek pulled out for a moment to shove two fingers in. Stiles swallowed them down as he felt them go past his uvula; when they emerged, they were covered in the thick, mucosal spit of his throat. “That's kinda gr-” was all he got out before Derek's cock was right back where it belonged and Derek's two wet fingers shoved roughly into his ass.

That didn't last for long, though, because in what felt like moments, he was flipped back over onto his stomach and hauled up onto his hands and knees.

“You can move now. Because you're gonna scream, and I know how you get.”

“Yes, Der.”

Stiles felt the head of Derek's cock at his entrance then, and did exactly as predicted, dropping his head to the mattress and shoving his ass back to meet Derek's insistent pounding. It burned a little, but he didn't ask for things he didn't want, and he was still a bit stretched from the previous night's acrobatics, so it wasn't unbearable.

He could certainly feel it, though.

He screamed again as he felt the claws in his hips retract to human fingers and blunt, square teeth sink into the back of his neck. Derek hadn't given him time to adjust or relax, had started in immediately with a brutal rhythm that Stiles felt in his bones. After a few of these punishing thrusts, Stiles was pushed into the wall and braced his forearms against it to prevent his face getting smashed. “Fuck, yes, Derek,” he groaned, feeling Derek's balls slap against his own.

He was flipped over yet again—damn, he loved getting manhandled—and looked up to see Derek's face, contorted in effort but still breath-taking, framed by his own knobbly knees. He eyes clenched shut as his senses focused on Derek's hand on his cock, his own orgasms spilling out across his chest, Derek's orgasm spilling into him...

The next time he looked up, Derek's face was mostly hidden and framed by Stiles' thighs as he once again screamed Derek's name, whacking ineffectually at the man's head as a very strong tongue lapped across his over-sensitive asshole. “Guess I didn't break your werewolf stamina after all,” Stiles whimpered.

Derek pulled back only long enough to smirk, “There's still time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So "dirty puzzle" is a real word for slut from the 18th century (according to my research) and I really love sluts and I really love puzzles and I just want this to start being used again. Like, if anyone ever yells this out during sex because of this fic, I will die happy.


	10. In Which the Ravens Begin to Gather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prophecy scene shamelessly lifted from Marion Zimmer Bradley's _The Forest House_.
> 
> Because I read _The Mists of Avalon_ so much as a youngster that they became firmly entrenched in my mind as history books.

Stiles had seen the high priestess, Lydia, at other holidays but only met her a few hours before tonight's ceremony. Deaton told him he'd be one of the few men welcome at the priestesses' enclave when he finished training, but until then... near-complete social isolation (except for bonding sessions, of course).

Lydia had talked, quickly and definitively, about how she channeled the goddess and had no preknowledge about what might happen, but Stiles got a firm impression of a person in prim and absolute control of herself at all times.

She was clearly weighing his value, asking probing questions and frowning slightly as he talked, as if his answers didn't quite measure up, but as they'd left, Deaton had commented off-handedly that she seemed quite taken with him. “She never warms up that quickly.”

He was used to the public celebrations by now, and while Samhain might be a bit more fire-and-brimstone than Midsummer had been, it fit the cloudy skies and shortening days. It was still a little weird to be at this sort of gathering—he hadn't grown up in a church, had never been spiritual or whatever—but since he was mostly there to bear witness on the pack's behalf and didn't have to do much, he dealt with it okay. The part of his brain that was a little distracted, a little uncomfortable, he easily occupied by peeking at Derek out of the corner of his eye.

The formerly huge bonfire had burned down to a massive pit of embers and most of the revelers had wandered off by the time Lydia moved closer to the fire and drank down the trancing potion for the second time that night.

The few dozen people left—Derek's fighters in their kilts, safehouse folk with their cloaks pulled up over their faces—leaned in, much soberer, Stiles was relieved to see, than the ones who'd straggled off earlier, all exactly as drunk as he'd expected a bunch of Scots in the woods on Halloween to be. Stereotypes were a motherfucker, but really, they had a whole section of the liquor store named after them.

Orange flames flicked over the surface of the embers, drawing Stiles' attention back to the knot of people closest to the fire. Shit. He'd missed the actual calling of the Goddess. Deaton would be pissed he didn't know who was talking to them.

Her blue robes absorbed the red light of coals, turned a purplish black. Her face shone red and her hair appeared made of fire itself, glowing and shifting around her. The merlin stood at her left shoulder, a second priestess at her right—a tall blond woman he hadn't met before, with a terrifying, bloody-looking smile.

She raised her arms; the hands and wrists slipping from her loose sleeves looked skeletal, and Stiles might have had a foot on Lydia, but at this time, she was huge and looming. A force to be reckoned with.

Something that wasn't a grin, really, but did open wide and show a lot of teeth, crossed her face. She spoke.

“People of the Highlands. You have been slaking my thirst all summer with the blood of the enemy. You call me, and I come. What do you ask of me?”

The people watching on broke out into questions then, drowning out the merlin.

“What is their weakness?”

“When should we strike?”

“How will we know when we've vanquished them?”

Derek, Stiles noted, stood a bit back from the warriors, silent, eyes fixed on the priestess. He did not fuck around during omens of war. Good.

Fire crackled up again, and the merlin's voice rang out above the rest. “We are stronger now than we have ever been. If ever we are to drive the English from our lands, it is now. We ask for your blessing, Nightmare Queen, and your help.”

The voice that emanated from the red-faced woman was a terrifying growl. “The English make themselves targets. All winter, you will gather strength. In the spring, before the leaves grow, there will be a few days of good weather. I will ride with one company to their largest winter camp. Smaller groups will surround their other camps. At nightfall we will attack. A blizzard will follow. When we leave the forts, we take all supplies. Any survivors will starve.

“Their entire force... disappeared. A mass of fighters will gather to the south. First they will kill the last sneaking Saxons, then they will kill any who dare come north.”

Lydia fell back from the fire, drawn and white, and the import of what just happened dawned on Stiles. A freaking goddess had just promised to fight on their side with them, like this was _The Iliad_ or some shit. “The age of miracles is not yet over,” he muttered to himself, heading towards Derek. He wanted to go check on Lydia, that shit looked _intense_ , but he knew the other priestess was there for that—unprofessional to get chatty at a time like this. “So, uh... that was good, right? Favorable omens and all that.”

“We'll see.” It was like Derek was allergic to optimism.

**)O(**  


It was two days before Stiles was allowed to see Lydia, still looking a bit pale, but sitting outside in the enclave's public gardens with the same fierce smile she'd worn at the fire.

“That shit was intense! I mean, I've seen you channel before, at other holidays but that seemed kinda... tame compared to _that_. Did it feel the same? Can you even remember what it feels like, or are you just, like, totally out of it?” Stiles realized he was rambling and shut his mouth with a snap.

“I don't usually remember much. I'm aware of it happening, but it feels... distant. I'm so far from myself, I can't tell if I'm running the show or if She is. This time was different. I can still remember how it felt... crackling with power... and Erica always tells me what I said right after, so I can piece it together. I'm glad to be in charge now, I can tell you. I don't want to be one of those dull nothing-goes-wrong High Priestesses everyone forgets about.”

“Are you this tactless about your ambition to be a war queen with everyone?”

Lydia leaned forward and flicked Stiles on the forehead, smirking. “Deaton told me about you. Just because you don't know how that tattoo got there doesn't mean... anything. You're the only man in Scotland right now as dedicated to the goddess as I am. And the goddess. Wants her land back.”

“Don't take this the wrong way, but back home, I studied the history of the Celts pretty extensively. I know that the Scots aren't the first people here. Why does she support us when we did the same thing back when that the English are trying to do now?”

“Deities are creatures of habit, Stiles.” Lydia rolled her eyes, clearly disappointed in him. “It takes a long time for them to gather power from their followers' belief, and time moves slowly for them. It was _us_ who spilled blood with her prayers in our throats, and _us_ who she wants to emerge victorious. The Morrigan isn't just a war goddess, she's a goddess of the land. If she helps us keep our land now, everything we do on it as a free people will be a celebration of her might, and she will grow ever stronger.

“Besides, the English are Christians. Their god is a pacifist; he'll never help. When it's so easy to win, why would you not?”

“So, basically you and the Morrigan are both wrathful, conniving geniuses?”

“There's a reason this is happening now, and it isn't all you, you know. Maybe Deaton is wrong. Maybe you were sent here because this was starting, and not the other way around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to try so hard to keep to this once-a-week schedule. Real life is making some inroads on my writing time, but chapter eleven is basically done so it should be up next week sometime, even if it isn't on Monday exactly. Thank you all so much for reading/bearing with me.


	11. In Which Plans Are Laid

Stiles didn't get to see Derek as often after the snow fell; Deaton, he learned, hailed from warmer lands and preferred to hibernate all winter rather than riding about visiting different camps, and needed Stiles close by as they prepared for spring with everything they had. And Derek had his own calling.

When he did stop by, rarely and never for long enough, he sat around the fire and talked numbers with Deaton, reporting on where he'd been, whose loyalties had been sworn, and which oaths might not be trusted. It seemed to Stiles he rode the breadth and width of Scotland, and he understood. He did. But that didn't mean he wasn't also lonely, or horny, or freezing cold every long dark night he spent with only his own thin arms wrapped around himelf.

So he was understandably a little disappointed when Deaton sent him with a message to Derek's usual camp and Derek... wasn't there. He knew more of the men by now, nodded hello to Boyd before finding Isaac and handing over the thin roll of parchment. “Memorize, then burn, he said. You, uh, haven't seen Derek?”

Isaac smiled and shook his head. “Sorry, no. He's been gone almost a month—expecting him back next week. Want me to tell him you were asking after him?”

“You don't have to.”

“I will.”

“Thanks. You're a good friend.” Isaac, he knew, was another who didn't have a wife waiting for him in some small village, would rather save his coin than spend it on whores on the rare occasions the company visited a larger town... and he was cute, too, with an impish little smile when he told a joke and curly hair that just begged to be pulled. Stiles idly wondered how Derek would feel about polyamory (or failing that, threesomes) as he smiled at Isaac and agreed to stay for lunch. There would be time enough to ride back to Deaton's in the afternoon and still be back safe before the impenetrable Scottish darkness settled down for the night.

Lunch was good—onions and potatoes and carrots in a thick gravy, good for keeping warm on a cold day—and he enjoyed the easy banter he had with Isaac, who was funny in the way of people who didn't try for it, didn't think of themselves as comedians. He relished the company of people who actually talked like people did—even Boyd was more talkative and forthcoming than Deaton once he warmed up to you, and Isaac loved to tease him about his secret sweetheart—but he knew from experience that while he _could_ use his burgeoning power to prevent death-by-hypothermia if he got stuck out after dark, he'd really rather not.

**)O(**  


He pulled up to the entrance of Deaton's cave just as nautical twilight darkened to astronomical, stars twinkling into existence across the sky. He dismounted slowly, disappointed at not seeing Derek earlier in the day even though he had known it was a fruitless hope, and trudged down the long hallways with one finger tracing the rough stone, unable to stop himself from dwelling on the first time he'd been there, the evening that had come after.

He stopped just outside of the entrance to the stable, leaned his head against the doorway and sighed. He knew he should just get it over with, unsaddle and groom Abbot, go to the kitchen where Deaton had doubtless left him soup warming over the fire, but he just needed to stand there for a minute. Abbot shoved his big head against Stiles' shoulder, nickering softly, and Stiles started.

“Okay, okay. You're right.” He stepped through the doorway, quickly, and stopped again, just as quickly. “Cloudberry!” He rushed through the grooming and dumped hay into Abbot's manger without looking, already running down the hallway to the house proper as the last strands of dried grass floated to the ground. He barely slowed down to fling open the door, knocking it loudly against the stone wall as he jumped into Derek's arms to give him a thorough, sloppy greeting.

“Good evening, Stiles,” Deaton said in a wry tone. “Did you enjoy your ride?”

Stiles couldn't be bothered to hop down from where his legs wrapped around the strong waist of his lover or to remove his mouth from the bearded neck below him. “Mhmm...”

Derek laughed under him at he attempted to detach him—though not very hard, because he didn't succeed—and said, “Maybe some dinner? You must be hungry after that ride.”

Stiles dropped his voice to a whisper, at least _trying_ for propriety, and moved his mouth close to Derek's ear. “Don't need dinner. Just... missed you, Der, need you so bad.” It came out as more of a whimper than a whisper, but Derek was hardly complaining.

“I... think he needs a nap before he eats,” Derek offered to Deaton in a bare attempt at an excuse. Deaton didn't reply aloud, just nodded as his lips quirked in what might have been a smile as he watched Derek carry Stiles down the hall.

They arrived at the door to Stiles' room—their room—panting and red. “You were gone too long,” Stiles complained, fumbling behind himself for the door handle. “It's cold at night.”

“Maybe Deaton would spoon you.”

“I'm not going to dignify that with a response-”

“You just did.”

“Stop smirking! I had to jerk off. _By myself_. And my hands aren't as nice as yours.”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” Derek replied drolly as he pushed Stiles through the door and brought one hand up to his mouth, sucked two fingers deep inside. “I've never had any cause to complain.”

“You say that like you expect that to change! Rude.”

Derek untangled their limbs then and lowered himself to the bed, lay back with legs spread and looked up at Stiles, eyelashes fluttering. _That is the most pornographic sight I have even laid eyes on, fully dressed for winter or no_ , Stiles thought to himself, swallowing harshly.

“I don't expect that to change at all,” Derek admitted. “But you're welcome to prove me wrong. Or attempt it, anyway. I don't think you could if you tried.”

“I don't want to try.” Stiles followed Derek down, caged the broad body with his longer, thinner one. “I only ever want to please you.”

“You like torturing me, too,” Derek teased. “I remember all that blood, last fall, even if it's slipped your mind.”

“I did _that_ to please you, too. But tonight... I just want to hold you and be sweet to you. It's been so long... I just want to remember how you feel here, in my bed, on my cock.”

Derek hissed in his breath, bucked his hips up unselfconsciously. “Does that mean I can't talk you into tying me up? Because I brought some rope...”

“Oh yeah?” Stiles quirked one eyebrow up, leaned far over Derek's body to get at the pack. He refused to get off Derek's lap to get it, though, so the fumbling—and accompanying grinding—went on for a bit longer than was perhaps strictly necessary, not that either of them complained. “Being sweet to you is in no way mutually exclusive with tying you up. I'm gonna spoil you, baby, how do you want me to tie you?”

“Mmm... hands behind my back.”

“That's all?”

“I want to ride you.”

Stiles was never going to get used to Derek's blatant sexual honesty. Never. He gulped, imagining how Derek would look, broad chest spread and exposed by a boxtie, framed by the rope. “Well, you can't ride me the whole time because I have some ideas of my own, so do you want to start that way or finish?”

“Finish. Want to beg for your hand on my cock... sir.” Stiles was mostly in charge, especially when it came to sex, but they in no way had an established protocol, so Stiles knew Derek was just calling him “sir” to manipulate him, to twist him further around Derek's little finger. Knew Derek did it only when it pleased him, when he wanted to get shoved into subspace.

Knowing what was going down didn't stop it from working, however.

Derek started begging for Stiles to touch his dick long before he started riding the man, even before he was tied. Stiles took his sweet, cruel time laying Derek out, legs wide, and started kissing him, petting him—everywhere _except_ between his legs. Stiles waited until Derek was on edge, skin hot and desperate for more, for anything, before he reached for the rope. Derek hadn't brought Stiles' enchanted rope but a coil infused with wolfsbane, and every inch of it slipping across Derek's skin burned.

Stiles tied Derek's arms so each hand held the opposite elbow, forearms pressed together, and gently lowered the beautiful little slut back to the bed before settling himself between Derek's thighs.

When he finally felt Stiles' slick fingers slipping into him, Derek nearly sobbed, but it was nothing compared to the sensation of those long limbs wrapping him up, thighs firm under his own as they bracketed his hips and big hands slipped behind his shoulders to tug at the cords, arch his spine and press his chest harder into Stiles'. His eyes flew open as Stiles' forehead came to rest against his own and he lost himself in the sight of Stiles' wide brown eyes boring into him.

Derek couldn't have said how long they went on like that before Stiles rolled them over, declaring as he did so that his moves were, “totally sexy and not all awkward, thank you!”

Derek dug his toes into the blanket, settled his weight back and flexed his thighs. He gasped when Stiles' fingers dug into his hips but kept to his slow pace. “Thank you for taking such good care of me, love. My turn now, take care of you.”

Stiles shivered when he heard the words and tried to thrust up, to bury himself faster or deeper or—but he couldn't. Derek was heavy and strong and had pinned his thighs with careful positioning of his own shins. “Fucking... god, Der, so gorgeous like this, the way you take me.”

Derek smirked a little. He'd planned on being the one desperate and begging, had fantasized about it the entire ride to Deaton's and the interminable wait in the kitchen, but this... he could go for this, too. “Good,” he murmured. “So happy to do this for you, to make you feel _oh shit yes!_ ” He'd been trying to avoid hitting his own prostate, trying to stay in control to make this good for Stiles, to spoil Stiles, but he just, he just _couldn't_ , not anymore, not with the white hot sparks of pleasure originating in his ass and running through his every cell. His pace picked up as he threw his head back and moaned needily, “Please, fuck, please Stiles, your hand, oh goddess.” He didn't have to beg for long; he was so on edge that he started to come at the first brush of Stiles' fingers against his swollen flesh.

Derek looked back and forth from Stiles' hand closing around his cock to the jets of come busily decorating Stiles' chest and face until he felt Stiles' orgasm explode inside him; his eyes rolled back and he clenched around Stiles' cock, groaning incomprehensible praise.

He heard Stiles say something he couldn't process, felt hands on him, followed the hands as they tipped him forward. He snuggled gratefully into Stiles' torso, unthinkingly rubbing his face into his own mess, and whined happily.

**)O(**  


Stiles woke up just long enough to undo the knots with fumbling hands and grumble about the semen-soaked state of the ropes and immediately passed back out.

**)O(**  


Stiles woke again, starving and disoriented in the pitch black, and pulled a blanket around his naked self (too tired to bother folding a kilt and his beloved pants were probably still soaked from his icy ride home) before stumbling down to the kitchen. He tried to ask, “Is there food? What time is it? How are you even awake?” but mostly just yawned hugely and ended up asking, “Is there foo—YAAAAUUUGGGHH—you even awake?”

Derek and Deaton said, “Over the fire,” in unison before continuing on individually but still perfectly timed, “Some of us are werewolves,” and “Some of us have priorities,” respectively.

“That's just creepy,” Stiles commented as he filled his bowl with stew. He got his blanket-nest situated not-quite-in-Derek's lap before he asked, “So why are you up so late? What are you talking about?” Deaton just stared at him so he barreled on, “Look, you wanna get the guy from the future to go back in time and learn your magic and sex your werewolves? You gotta put up with guy-from-the-future's idea of social propriety. I'd say my idea of impropriety but obviously there's not much that falls under that umbrella for me.” He dug in.

“We're trying to work out some details.”

“Go on.”

“Don't talk with your mouth full!”

“I'm hungry and opinionated. I won't talk if you will.”

“Derek is concerned about our numbers. He worries we'll count on people who won't show up. Yes?”

“That's not exactly what I said, it's just—if we don't win this time, when we have everything going for us, there won't—we're never going to. I, we, we have to win.”

Stiles swallowed, just to be nice, and nuzzled into Derek's neck. “We will win. We have you, we have Lydia, we have the goddess, we have Deaton, did you know I can move huge ass boulders around now, we have Isaac and Boyd and also the entire population of Scotland because nobody is about to let their fucking _clothing_ be outlawed.”

“As usual, I would phrase it a little differently, but in principle I agree. We still don't know by what power Stiles got here at all, but it was certainly active before we had the attention of the goddess. Whatever caused that translocation, it was not a trifling matter. It would not have been idly done.”

“See, Deat's breaking out the big words! You gotta believe us now.”

“Perhaps. But there are still a lot of details to work out.”

“Shouldn't that wait until all your war dudes get here next week?”

“It doesn't hurt to have a plan.”

“Unless having that plan keeps your war dudes from speaking up 'cause they don't want to cross their alpha. C'mon, come to-”

“Well, I'm going to bed.” Deaton vanished abruptly.

“You're not even done eating yet.”

“Excuse me, I am multitalented. I can sit in your lap and eat.”

“But you won't.”

**)O(**  


Isaac and Boyd arrived early the next week to soak up a few days of Alpha Rays (Stiles assumed) before the big meeting. The third day of the visit, all three werewolves were irritable and cramped, none of them used to being so sedentary. Stiles considered it as an opportunity to maybe introduce the threesome idea... but then there was Boyd to consider, who apparently already had a very female, very terrifying sweetheart whom no one should ever, ever cross. Or so Isaac said.

They ended up in a meadow an hour's ride from the house in a friendly sparring free-for-all. Well, they started out that way. Stiles quickly realized that Derek couldn't or wouldn't allow any kind of threat close to him and started using Derek as sort of a mobile fort, darting to one side and firing off a spell and ducking back before either of the other wolves could break through Derek. Isaac and Boyd caught on to what was happening before their alpha did and quickly teamed up in an attempt to flank them. Stiles, shameless as always in pursuit of a goal, let Derek confront them both head-on as he prepared his spells.

**)O(**  


Lydia arrived with the merlin and the blond priestess in tow the morning of. Stiles leaned down to kiss Lydia's cheek before he quite knew what he was doing and clasped the merlin's hand warmly, but when he turned to the other priestess to greet her—well, the glare she shot him over Boyd's shoulder was plenty.

The meeting started immediately, but Stiles could barely pay attention. He was exhausted, first of all, from his terrible time management skills and staying up so late every night with Derek, but more to the point, became bored almost immediately. Deaton's lessons had not covered the petty interclan bickering the first portion of the meeting focused on, and Derek seemed determined to count up every fighting body they would have on their side before moving on.

“Oh my god!” Stiles proclaimed after two hours of this, earning himself looks of shock from the betas and grudging approval from Lydia. (Deaton's expression was typically unreadable.) “Look, there's no way to guarantee our numbers ahead of time. Personally, I think every able-bodied Scot will be there, but there's no point in arguing about it. It doesn't increase our numbers, just wastes our planning time. So, about this battle...”

The discussion that followed was still long and hard to focus on but at least Stiles could contribute, which made it so much easier to keep his eyes open instead of curling up with his head in Derek's lap.

**)O(**  


Isaac knocked at their door later, maybe half an hour after everyone had made their excuses and retired. They'd been languorous when they got into bed and, despite the late hour, hadn't gotten much past making out, and Stiles cracked the door wearing just his underwear, which did very little to conceal what they'd been up to. “Lydia is pretending she's asleep so Erica can visit Boyd and if I have to overhear someone besides me getting laid... well, I'd just rather it was two men.”

Stiles felt his eyes grow to the size of dinner plates as he turned to Derek. _Shit!_ He'd meant to bring this up before the meeting ended, but he didn't think a rushed on-the-spot discussion would get him the answer he was looking for (...or respect his relationship or his lover). “What, uh... what do you think, Der?”

“I can think of worse ways to end the night than having my very handsome friend watch me get thoroughly fucked by the man I love.”

“I didn't—I wasn't planning on—I mean, I don't have to watch. I was just going to lay down and be glad I don't have to listen to Erica.”

“But it isn't it more fun to watch than to lay in the dark and pretend you're asleep? Stiles, do you mind?”

Stiles felt his grin grow wider and wider as he answered and stepped back from the door, beckoning Isaac in. “No, I do not mind. Come on in, feast your peepers! Do you have, like, a blanket or anything? I don't mind if you're on the bed, actually, if Derek doesn't-”

“Nope!”

“-but it will be difficult to, you know, not touch.”

Isaac blushed, bright and fast, and allowed how a little incidental brushing wouldn't be the worst thing to happen that night.

“You're in for a treat,” Stiles stage-whispered loudly. “He's super hot when he comes.”

“He's super hot all the time?” Isaac offered.

“You have no idea. Hey, Derek, start getting yourself ready. I need to grab something from the kitchen.”

When Stiles returned—a burning candle in one fist and a handful of unlit tapers clenched in the other—he was greeted with the beautiful sight of Derek, naked, legs spread, three fingers working into his hole as Isaac gazed on with a slightly braindead look Stiles knew only too well.

“You're looking a little stupid there, buddy. You doing okay?”

“Yes, great.” Isaac's voice was rough, like his throat had suddenly gone dry, but he sounded honest enough.

Stiles turned his attention to Derek as he lit the candles and placed them strategically around the room. Derek, for his part, made searing, unbroken eye contact with Stiles as he added a fourth finger and curled them into his prostate. “Stiles—can't wait any more. Come on, come on, I need you, I-”

Stiles knelt between his splayed legs and swallowed him down. He cut his eyes to the side and was gratified to see that although Isaac was backed as far into the wall as he could go (as if that would give them any privacy!) he palmed himself through his kilt. Stiles nudged Derek's thigh to get the man's attention, indicated Isaac's activities with the hand not full of Derek's balls.

“You can... touch yourself...” Derek muttered brokenly. “We... don't—OH FUCK oh fuck oh fuck.”

Stiles pulled back just long enough to finish, “Mind,” and sucked Derek right down again, bringing him quickly to orgasm before wriggling out of the rest of his own clothes and tugging at Derek's wrist. “Enough of this now,” he teased when Derek whimpered at the loss of sensation. “You gotta make room for my cock, you know?”

Derek moaned loudly as Stiles slid home, kept it going as his lover methodically took him apart, fucked him long and slow.

Stiles had eyes only for Derek, but couldn't help but feel Isaac's eyes on him, couldn't help but hear the strangled gasps and sounds of skin on skin coming from beside them. Just the knowledge that Isaac wanted this, that Derek wanted this, made him hot beyond his own belief and it was difficult for him to rein himself in, to wait until Derek had come a second time—cock untouched—before he started plowing in hard, chasing his own orgasm.

He collapsed on top of Derek, sticky and sweaty, dead to the world until he felt a cool cloth fall onto his back and looked up to see Isaac's smirk. “Easier now than later, don't you think?” Stiles swallowed and nodded, watching Isaac clean himself. He hadn't noticed the man get naked, but Jesus Fucking Christ, he wouldn't make that mistake again. Reluctantly, he rolled off of Derek just far enough to wipe them both down and then oozed over Derek's chest again.

He felt rather than heard Isaac's hesitance as he stood next to the used cloth—now just part of a pile of identically gross cloths—and emphatically did not want this to get awkward or uncomfortable. “Derek, can he cuddle with us?”

“Of course. Rude to turn a man out of the bed he orgasms in, I always say.”

“You've never said that.”

“I just said that. Isaac, get over here.”


	12. In Which Stiles Surprises Even Himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I using the singular third for a non-human/non-werewolf animal? You fucking betcha!

Stiles and Derek arrived several days before the battle was set to begin, to camp in secret and keep an eye on things. Stiles set up his scrying pool to Deaton in a protected glade and, while Derek restlessly circled the large camp, contacted his mentor to go over everything one more time. Task concluded, he went inside their small tent to rest—it wasn't that he wasn't as nervous as Derek, because he was, maybe even more so as his skills were largely untested. But, fuck, practicing now would only bring attention to them and ruin everything, so he just went over the plan in his head. Again. And again. And-

A huge raven broke his train of thought by landing directly above him and cawing loudly. Stiles broke from his reverie and poked his head out of the flap. “C'mon down here before you poop on me.” The raven ruffled and smoothed their feathers, clearly affronted at the insinuation, but flapped heavily down to perch at the edge of the scrying pool anyhow. “That's not a bird bath, you know,” he commented as he untied the note from the bird's ankle and began to read.

_Please show my bird more respect. She is more experienced and wiser than you._ _We will arrive in two days' time so that we may meet once more before the plan goes into action. Our combined forces will arrive in the night one full day after that. Erica is already in place at the northern camp, and I'm sure you know of Deaton's actions better than I._ _Send me your response with all haste._

Stiles rolled his eyes at the specter of Lydia's disapproval but did as he was told, scrawling his reply across the back of her note.

_We're here. Everything is fine. A Certain Someone won't stop running patrol. Bored._

**)O(**  


It seemed to take forever for Lydia and the others to show up. Derek was so anxious he literally pulled tufts of his own hair out (though that, too, was apparently covered by werewolf healing) and couldn't be distracted by sex.

Stiles spent a lot of the those two days pouting. Pouting and verbally reviewing the plan of action eight million, nine hundred one thousand, two hundred one times.

Roughly.

**)O(**  


Stiles sat in on the last minute meetings, but couldn't say afterward what had been discussed. He knew his part backward and forward, had been practicing with Deaton in isolated gorges for months now, and was beyond impatient to just do it and be done. He was tired of being nervous, of worrying and pacing, of Derek being too distracted to fuck his mouth properly.

The day immediately before the battle was boring and long and nerve-wracking, as he and Derek and Lydia met group after group of arriving warriors in the woods and helped them get stealthily into place.

Finally, the sun was setting and Stiles played priestess to Lydia, brewing and serving the trance herbs.

“Too bad you're not a girl,” she commented as she waited for them to steep. “You'd do well at the goddess house.”

“One, binary gender is total horseshit. Two, no I would not, I'm horrible at following directions. Or rules. Three, pretty content with my lot here, m'not gonna lie. Four, aww, Lyds, I didn't know you-”

“Don't even,” she warned. “Those have to be ready by now.”

“Yes, your goddessliness.”

“Shut up and get into your place.”

“Yes, your-”

“ _Before_ I start throwing things at you.”

Stiles ran.

**)O(**  


Stiles couldn't see much of the battle from his perch, and for that he was obscenely glad. He could see it in general terms, which was fine—it would be hard to step in and do his part if he couldn't tell what was going on at all—but had he been down there in the thick of things, seeing each blow, each gunshot, seeing Derek fighting and bleeding? Well, he was sure he'd end up breaking with the plan and wading into the mess of war, fragile human skin and all.

As it was, he was antsy, nervous and impatient to get this over with, to hold Derek in his arms again and know for himself the man was whole and healthy. But getting ahead of himself would help no one...

There they were: a line of brightly-dressed English troops, trying to keep order even as they retreated. The collected forces of half-shifted weres and belligerent Scots forced them into a tight ravine—one that happened to pass directly under Stiles' hiding spot—but the terrified soldiers didn't notice the terrain they ran over. They only ran, nearly blind despite the fat moon sailing overhead. Even so, they managed to keep some semblance of rank as they went.

Until the first huge boom came from above and in front of them. As the dirt and rocks rained down in a sudden, inexorable avalanche, they started trampling each other in their haste to return to the battle, to the doomed fort.

It only meant they were a more concentrated target for the second explosion, the one that denied their retreat. Stiles couldn't help the wide, fierce grin as he leaned over the lip of the ravine to survey his prey. They smelled, even from here, of sweat and blood and piss, of the undeniable odors of fear and shit, all those unglamorous parts of war the summer blockbusters never prepared him for.

He didn't need to be prepared. He fought for Derek, for freedom. He was born for this.

He showed a few more sharp teeth as his mind quested deep into the opposite bank of the gorge and found a few rocks in likely places with air bubbles deep inside. He sent his own magic in the form of heat energy into those boulders, expanding the gasses trapped within in.

For a moment, he thought it might not work this time.

For a moment, he thought the rocks might be too big, or the pockets too small, or his own powers too weak.

Then, it worked.

The battle went silent and deathly still for long seconds as his focus narrowed on the jets of debris shooting from the earth and raining dirt and stone and plants down on him, on the trapped soldiers below him, on layer after thick layer of rubble.

He knew he was hit even if he couldn't hear his own moans of pain. He could feel the impact, the blood trickling down his face. But that didn't matter. What mattered was the steaming rock, the ravine filling in in front of him.

He settled down to keep watch, to ensure no one escaped.

He dozed.

**)O(**  


“Stiles! Stiles, wake up!” The voice was high and pleading, sounded desperate and frightened and so fucking needy. Well, that was silly. Stiles was right here and he didn't need to wake up. He was happy, floating...

He felt the hands on his skin, rough fingers smoothing the still-tacky blood away from his face, and that brought him back. “...Derek? What, what... I was—oh shit!” He sat bolt upright despite the hands trying to keep him still. “None of them got away, did they? I was watching, I was-”

“None of them got away. Nothing is ever getting in or out of that part of the gorge ever again.”

“Good.” Stiles' voice sounded breathless and dazed, even to him, but no further away than the other voices that slowly reached his ears.

“Stiles! Stop doing that. You have to stay here. Stay here with me, do you hear me?”

“I hear you. Before, couldn't. Now, can.”

“What happened to you? Why couldn't you hear?”

“Big noise... rocks falling, rock hit me... concussion, probably.”

“Concussion, what does that mean?”

“Concussion... don't let me sleep. Twelve hours, no sleeping.”

“Okay, okay. We can do that. Stiles, you with me? Can you feel this?”

“Cleaning my face. M'fine, m'fine. Where are the—the others? Injured? Need help them.”

“Their injuries aren't going anywhere. You let me take care of you first, got it? You can take care of them later.”

**)O(**  


It was two days before Derek would let Stiles out of bed—though to be fair, Stiles only tried to get up for the first twelve hours, when he wasn't allowed to sleep. The next eighteen were spent passed the fuck out, and the remainder... well, Stiles took some convincing to believe that Derek was really okay.

When Stiles finally got to the healers' tent, he found Erica returned and assisting Lydia, both with their dramatically flowing sleeves rolled up as they changed bandages on the score or so of wounded warriors. He saw Isaac and another young were sucking out black lines of pain at the far end of the tent.

“It's the worst down there, isn't it?” he asked and got only a curt nod from Lydia in reply. He offered his own nod to Isaac as he sat beside someone so covered in bandages that Stiles couldn't tell begin to guess at the person's identity, age, or gender. He sank down into himself before reaching out with his mind, much as he had done when exploring the standing stones, and inspected the patient's wounds.

Which... shit, there were a lot. He found the biggest one—a gash that ran diagonally across the ribs and continued into the abdomen, where it very narrowly missed severing an intestine—and began to coax the wound back together. He reached out with his hands to steady the flesh, but used his mind to close the still-bleeding slash, slowly and carefully as working a broken zipper.

He didn't know how long it took to heal that first wound, didn't stop for rest or information or water when he finished, just moved on to the second worst wound, the third worst, all the way down until the injuries themselves were healed and he only had the lingering infection to rout.

He spread his awareness further, thinner, tried to reach his patient on the cellular level, tried to sort out any sense of wrongness and push it away, to send it out of the body.

This, he could tell, took a long time, and he was dimly aware of a grotesque pus bubbling its way out through the pores. He was glad whoever it was was still asleep, exhausted from battle and healing, because this—this had to be disturbing as fuck to experience. It was a little weird just to do, honestly; Deaton had not told him his powers came anywhere close to this level.

When he finally deemed the patient healed, free of injury and infection, he carefully withdrew to exist only in his own body and looked up.

Every ambulatory person in the tent clustered around him, gape-mouthed and disbelieving. Lydia obviously held Derek back with both her sharp talons and unbroken hissing.

“Hey. I, uh... healed-”

Stiles passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously writing battle is not my strong point, but hey, a story needs plot. Don't worry, it'll be all sexy times and sassy banter again next week.


	13. In Which No One is Subtle

“I don't... I mean, it won't bother them? That they've been healed by a faggot?”

“This is a problem? In your time?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it kinda is.”

“Stiles.”

“Yes?”

“I don't care if it bothers them. I haven't flaunted my preferences in the past, nor have I hidden them-”

“There may have been some flaunting on my part,” Isaac interjected.

“-but either way, I do not think it's been a secret from any of my men. If it has been, they are not very observant.”

“Have there been any other time traveling emissaries I should know about?”

“No. Just the one is loud enough to notify the entire camp of my preferences, I should think.”

Isaac's eyebrows tried for sly but failed miserably. “If you, uh, think another set of vocal cords might help, I could...”

Stiles felt his eyes get dark and hungry as he turned to his lover. “Der?”

“You're in charge here.”

“Hey. No. No no no. I'm not bringing in other people without your consent. I'm not into that kind of power.”

“You need my consent? You have it.”

“Baller! Hey, Isaac?”

“Yes?”

“So usually, when Derek and I... you know... anyways, I'm in charge. How do you feel about... that kind of thing?”

“You mean, you bossing Derek around and him doing whatever you say?”

“Partially.”

“I think the idea has-” Isaac stopped talking and moved Stiles' hand to the thickening bulge in his crotch.

“Wow. I think you just out-tactlessed me.”

“What's the other part?”

“The other—oh! Uh, if I bossed you around?”

“I'm pretty versatile. I don't know that I'd be up for that every time, but it sounds good tonight.”

Stiles tossed back the rest of his ale as he digested that “every” before getting up to refill his tankard with water. Even if Derek intended to out them to the entire Scottish army by having the loudest, gayest threesome imaginable... well, it was a little early to leave the party. Even Derek's frankly impressive moaning might get drowned out by the carousing Scots.

**)O(**  


A few hours later, in the tent, Stiles paused and looked up at Derek. “Are you sure?”

Derek huffed out a breath of exasperation and rolled his eyes so hard it was clearly visible even in the dim light of their small lantern. “Look, if they won't be healed by you, there's no need for them to be led by me. Think of it as threshing.”

“I don't understand that cultural reference.”

“Sorting the wheat from the chaff.”

“Yeah, okay. Let's do this.” Stiles may have been hesitant, but Isaac was anything but, and had his nose in Derek's bush before Stiles had even moved. “Hey now! I don't think you understand how a two-person blowjob works.” He grabbed Isaac's curls and tugged him back enough to wrap his own mouth around the base of Derek's cock, humming contentedly to himself when he heard Derek's broken moan from up above him.

He eventually fell into a rhythm with Isaac, each on a side, one sliding up as the other slid down, but it was still a little awkward—a little too crowded, a little too much nose—so he sat up and just watched. Isaac looked like he was on cloud nine, eyes closed and cheeks hollowed. Stiles watched contentedly for a long moment, a little dazed with the gratitude he felt for being in this time and place, with these people, before he interrupted his navel-gazing. “Isaac. On your back. Derek, hands and knees. Yeah. Fuck, you two are hot. Derek, you're gonna come in Isaac's mouth and then we're gonna fuck you airtight. You can suck him off if you want-”

“I want.” This in unison.

“-but if he comes you're both gonna be in trouble for spoiling my plans.”

Stiles sank onto his knees behind Derek and licked a wide stripe from Isaac's lips to Derek's tailbone before centering his activities on Derek's hole. The only sounds were Derek's quiet moans—muffled by Isaac's dick—and the squelching noises of three very enthusiastic people giving each other oral. _This won't do at all_ , Stiles thought. He traded his tongue for two fingers. “Isaac, we've gotta step up our game. We're supposed to be making sure everyone in the camp knows their alpha is a greedy little cockslut.”

Isaac grinned around his mouthful of cock and said something unintelligible but cheerful-sounding. Stiles shoved his tongue into Derek without removing his fingers and was gratified when he heard Derek's unimpeded groan and pictured his sub, eyes closed and head thrown back, trying and failing to ignore his own pleasure to serve Isaac's.

Derek wanted a cock in his mouth, fuck, he did, but he knew, oh god, he knew if he tried to give head now, with Stiles eating his ass and Isaac sucking his brains out, he'd end up leaving teeth marks where no teeth marks should be left, so he just buried his face in Isaac's hip and lost himself in the sensation. His hips jerked back and forth, fucking into Isaac and grinding into Stiles, wanting more, more.

Another finger slicked its way into his ass and he shrieked, threw his head back and howled as he spilled in and on Isaac's face, hips thrusting arhythmically as he came.

Derek was sloppy and pliant after orgasm, kissing with more abandon than finesse as Stiles manhandled him and Isaac into position, pausing to lick Isaac nice and wet before winking and tossing him the jar of oil. Stiles fisted a hand into the back of Derek's hair and brought him to where he could just lick the tip of Stiles' cock—but no further.

“Aww, puppy. You're whining. You want something? You gonna tell me what it is? No? I don't know how I'm going to give it to you then.” He looked from the pathetically needy look on Derek's face, up to the smug look on Isaac's, down to where Isaac's wet dick slid between Derek's thighs.

“Your... cock. Need it. Please.”

“Just mine? Not Isaac's? That isn't very polite, you know.”

“Yes! Yes, both.”

“ _Both_ cocks. You want us to plug you up, baby boy? You gotta ask. You know just nodding doesn't count. C'mon, ask.”

“Please, sir. Fill me up. Fuck me senseless. I need y-”

After that, it was over quickly enough that Stiles would have been disappointed, had he thought it was their only chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, people. It's been a struggle to find writing time so the epilogue may be a little delayed, but it will be done. I also have some ideas for vignettes in this verse so watch for those (but not on any kind of schedule because work/knitting sweaters/a million Ds renegotiations take up sort of a lot of time).


	14. Epilogue!

Stiles had—reluctantly—returned to Deaton's while Derek headed south to check on what Stiles had dubbed “the clean up crews,” despite the total lack of survivors from all three winter camps. (Honestly? And it wasn't that Stiles wasn't glad to have helped Derek, or that Scotland was now self-ruling or anything like that, but—it was just a lot of carnage, and when he thought about sometimes, well—he just needed a hug, sometimes, to know that he did the right thing, that he was still basically a good guy, and not having his go-to hugger around was kind of a problem.)

So, Stiles spent a lot of time wandering the land around Deaton's house, pretending to be occupied by one task or another, while in actuality he just walked up to hilltops and along ridges, keeping an eye out for Derek and Cloudberry. Which is exactly what he was doing one day in early March—he had realized the day before it was his one year anniversary of arriving here, of meeting Derek, which did absolutely nothing to help his mopeyness—just walking up a ridge, heading north. He hiked around all day, long after the plant walk excuse would hold any water, and finally started back towards Deaton's when the shadows got long.

He returned to find the small stable positively crowded with a total of six horses—Abbot of course, and Deaton's horse Thornberry, and three horses he'd never seen before in his life, tall and leggy and sleek, quite unlike the stout Scots ponies, and in the last stall... Cloudberry. Stiles raced down the hall, happily anticipating another reunion “nap” like the last time Derek had shown up without notice, but when he got to the kitchen, Derek was seated at the table. And didn't stand up to greet him.

“Stiles,” Derek smiled. “This is Cora.” Stiles managed to drag his attention away from Derek's face and noticed that, in fact, the reason for the extra horses was extra people. “My sister.”

Stiles pouted and made a none-too-subtle look to the door that led to their room.

Derek rolled his eyes. “My _little_ sister. Who I thought was dead until a week ago, but who has actually been in Cornwall all these years. And her two kids.”

Stiles stuck his lip out a little further but allowed (if only to himself) that maybe Derek had been waiting to see Cora a little longer than he'd been waiting to see Stiles and squeezed himself onto the bench between Derek and one of the tiny humans.

Only... yeah, yeah, that growl was definitely more indicative of a tiny werewolf.

“Hey now!” Stiles protested. “I'm way more fun than Uncle Der.”

“Did you have to-”

“You are literally the only reason I'm still in this godforsaken kitchen,” Stiles hissed out of the corner of his mouth, “so yes. Yes I did.” He turned his attention back to the golden-eyed, heavily browed toddler. “How do you feel about magic tricks? Because not to brag or anything, but I know quite a few.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah! It's done! I can't tell you how happy I am that all of y'all have been reading this whole freaking time, or how amazed/proud of myself I am. I've never finished anything even approaching this in length, and I honestly don't think it would have happened without the comments and kudos and appreciation I got from you. Thank you so much!


End file.
